


Order of the Hunt

by crumplednotes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 61,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10141898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumplednotes/pseuds/crumplednotes
Summary: Since Russia's place in the G8 was suspended in 2014, he's kept out of this, and while the 2017 meeting is supposed to take place in Italy, for the sake of the story, it will be taking place in London.





	1. Subject 68

**Author's Note:**

> Since Russia's place in the G8 was suspended in 2014, he's kept out of this, and while the 2017 meeting is supposed to take place in Italy, for the sake of the story, it will be taking place in London.

Whistling happily, America approached the woman strapped to the table in the center of the room. She bared her yellow-tinted fangs at him, fighting against the bonds to no avail. Her arms were spread out as though on a cross, palms up and making it impossible for her to bend her elbows without breaking any bones or yanking her shoulders out of socket.

The straps were leather, sigils burned into them as added precaution. Even if she escaped, the sigils would be burned into her wrists, upper arms, on either side of her neck, along her waist, on her outer thighs, and on her inner ankles. They’d slow her down enough to be caught again.

The room had no windows, the only sources of light the red bulb above the table, and a lamp on the oak desk shoved against the wall. The door was closed, insulation put up around it to keep sound from escaping.

“Bastard,” the vampire hissed, voice scratchy. She was dangerously thirsty and could shrivel from starvation soon—America made a mental note of that.

He wanted to study the shriveling phenomenon more, but not with her right now. So far, all the vampires he’d starved to the point of shriveling couldn’t be revived, but those bodies never decomposed, so there should be a way for them to revive, right?

“Scientist,” replied America glibly. “I’m only curious.”

It was the usual back-and-forth. She played dumb to his questions, and he played the scientist only interested in what made her (and those like her) tick.

Well, it wasn’t total play-acting. He was curious, though there were other questions he needed answered first.

It had been two years, four months, two weeks, and a day now.

He’d vanished after that night. On his property in West Virginia one moment and gone the next.

Chaff in the wind.

“But if you’d like to tell me where…?” America let the question linger in the stagnant air between them.

The room was getting hot, the air conditioning off and temperatures outside sweltering, even for this far south. It was humid too, and while vampires were undead, a few months of moving around told the nation vampires preferred colder climates. Humidity did not often affect them until heat was introduced, making their undead lives miserable.

It made America wonder why, then, any vampire stories would be best seen set in New Orleans. Its air was thick as cream, keeping a hold of summer heat until February—late January if they were lucky.

Maybe it was the atmosphere.

England always said he had no knowledge or talent for any sort of magic, conveniently forgetting about the Crescent City (to name one city renown for spirits, magic, and the like). Voodoo was a religion (closed to the uninitiated), which was often conflated in pop culture into simple magic.

Hoodoo was the magical system, and America knew it well. He’d been both caster and victim.

Hoodoo was an African-American tradition, rooted in the oppression they faced (in history and present times). As a nation, America had been both slave and master, oppressed and oppressor. While he had not practiced hoodoo for some time, he still knew it well. It had structure and rules, which America preferred. The wand-waving England did was too out-there, too unreliable, too impromptu.

Most thought America impulsive, and, to a point, he was. However, much of what others saw as whimsical (or downright idiotic) fancy was calculated on America’s part.

Better for them to see the boy that ate too many burgers and an obsession with superheroes and aliens. He didn’t want them to always see the king with a throne of bodies.

And now blood on his tongue.

He craved it now, even when he had fed last night. The hunger could not be eradicated, only quelled.

But if he got the answers he wanted—needed—then maybe he could make the hunger go away completely.

The vampire spat in America’s face. Or, at least, she attempted to. Nothing left her mouth but air and sound. Her amber eyes were wide, and her pale skin was coated in a substance that looked too thick to be sweat and stank of decomposition. America tried breathing through his mouth earlier, but that had only made the experience worse.

It was interesting, though. A vampire’s body regulated itself by consuming blood and energy from humans. The energy part still escaped the nation, as such things could not be measured, but he’d seen it happen as plainly as he’d seen these sigils burn into vampire flesh.

This was his sixty-eighth subject since the Incident. Finding how to keep them bound had taken trial and error. Finding how to examine their regenerative abilities without actually killing the specimen also took trial and error, though not as much, once America figured out how to keep them still.

They were much better at escaping than at dying.

However, it was America they were up against.

Oh, the looks on their faces when they’d thought they killed him, only to see him come back to life….

America smiled at the thought—the barest pull at the corners of his mouth.

“No screaming, now,” he whispered in a Yat accent, which always appeared whenever he entered the Crescent City. “Or do. No one will hear you but me, but it may affect how much more it’ll hurt.”

“Go to Hell,” the woman growled, pupils dilating to where they nearly blocked out the irises.

Odd how different vampires’ eyes reacted. Some dilated when agitated or hungry; some turned to slits, like a cat’s; and some became blocky, like a goat’s. Dilation was by far the most common, the slits in second and blocky pupils in third. It made America wonder if this meant there was some form of competition when it came to Turning new vampires.

It made sense. Dilated pupils were less likely to garner attention than slit- or rectangular pupils.

“How quaint a command, coming from you.” Alfred put the speculum in place, keeping the vampire’s right eye wide open. He then grabbed a fistful of hair, keeping her head down and still. “I think you recall how strong I am. I wouldn’t move if I was in your place.”

“What are you?” The vampire’s breathy voice barely passed her fangs, and America noticed the veins in her eyes were more visible than usual. The veins in her left eye had burst, making the bottom half of her iris darker than the rest.

Oh, this was going to hurt her a lot. Without enough blood inside of her, the numbing agent in her system wouldn’t be able to cancel much (if any) of it out. There would also be minimal bleeding; America was glad for that. The clean-ups were the worst part. Crime shows made it look much easier than it was, and, unfortunately, vampires didn’t turn to dust when killed as some myths proclaimed.

On the bright side, though, having the corpses allowed him the option of autopsy if he so wished. He’d only done autopsies on a few subjects, though, only killing them when time dictated.

“A hero,” America answered simply, the words a reflex. “Now hold still.”

On the desk was a hot plate, kept away from the papers and books. A small pot of water boiled, instruments sterilizing inside of it. America chose the deep-bowl spoon, humming as he came close, the subject’s snarl trembling like her shaking fists.

In the span of a held breath, there was a pop! and a high-pitched scream, pummeled by the vampire’s thirst. She soon could only whimper as she shook as much as the straps allowed. Her teeth chattered, and her eyelid drooped once the speculum was taken away and dropped into the pot of boiling water. The eye was dropped into a shallow mason jar. America added formalin to preserve it before screwing the lid shut tightly as possible.

Paying no mind to the vampire’s pitiful noises, he labeled the jar #68 5-21-17. The jar was then placed onto the lower of the two shelves above the desk, next to the much larger jar, which held the vampire’s liver. On the other side was a jar holding the subject’s kidneys, and next to the kidneys was her spleen.

America was curious if blood needed to be filtered. Vampires didn’t need to worry about accidentally drinking from a victim with a blood-borne virus that he knew, so he wondered if it had to do with them being in that tiny grey area between life and death (which he still had trouble wrapping his head around), or if vampire bodies could filter the blood so they wouldn’t die from a nightly drink.

To see, she needed blood. She’d starve within a few days if not given nourishment.

Vampire bats urinate while they drink, thought the nation as he pulled on gloves to protect his hands from the cold of the cooler next to the desk. Only a portion of the blood they take has any nutrients that can be used, and they need a lot just to get what they need. Blowing that up to her size would take gallons upon gallons, and from what I’ve seen, vampires don’t produce waste. And how does the numbing agent spread, when the heart doesn’t beat…?

His thoughts were bullet trains taking off in different directions, none of the tracks coordinated.

Sighing, America grabbed a fistful of the vampire’s hair, forcing her eye up at the ceiling. He’d already uncapped the bag, the vampire gasping as the smell hit her.

“Bon appétit,” whispered America, pouring the blood into her wide-open mouth. He did it in short spills, allowing her to swallow in-between. It took some time, and after a pint of clean blood, America switched to the bags holding blood from HIV-positive patients.

The smell was different, making America wrinkle his nose. The vampire spat the first mouthful, droplets hitting the nation’s cheeks, lips, jaw, and neck as rivulets streamed down from the corners of her mouth. That meant the taste was different from clean blood as well, to the point of it being unappetizing, even after being starved.

But if I’d fed her this blood right off the bat, thought America, she probably would have drunk it without hesitation.

He would try that next time to see.

The vampire gasped and sputtered, swearing in a mixture of English and Pennsylvania Dutch—ah, so that’s where she’d come from. Except for the groups that kept themselves separate from the rest of the population, Pennsylvania Dutch had fallen out of favor after World War II.

This vampire seemed rather young compared to others America had caught, but it was hard to judge age with vampires. Younger ones were burned by holy items, whereas older ones only developed a rash, which resembled someone touching poison ivy. This wasn’t a reliable test, though, as the reaction seemed to depend on the vampire’s beliefs, or their beliefs prior to being Turned.

One vampire, for instance, hadn’t reacted at all when touched by a crucifix, but when touched by Buddhist prayer beads, a rash had developed where America had touched him with it.

No matter, thought America. Her age was of little importance. After a year, all vampires’ anatomies worked almost identically, and this vampire had been undead for more than a year, America was sure.

Another spill of blood, and, again, the vampire sputtered.

The third time, though, was the charm. Still deeply hungry, she swallowed the rest of the pint, plus two more (both filled with infected blood).

She laid still, eye closed, and America injected ten cc’s of garlic juice, knocking her unconscious. Even after drinking three pints of blood (taken from live donors), the garlic would keep her weak for six to twelve hours.

As he left the room, America took a bag of clean blood, hunger a clenched fist deep within him. It felt both different and similar to hunger for food; it was a feeling he was unable to articulate, even in thought.

The house was a camelback style, the sealed room on the second story and would overlook the back yard if the window had not been covered up to make the room sound proof.

The staircase was right out the room’s door, a bathroom on the left and office straight ahead. The stairs led into the living room, which had a fold-out bed (still folded out and unmade), a loveseat, a TV over the fireplace, and a shrine in the corner, which acted as more decoration than devotion.

When in New Orleans, America suddenly felt Catholic. It was weird, being religious as a personified nation. Beliefs could change from one town to the next, one moment to the next. It was easier to just go with the flow and give it no thought.

Turning left, America passed through the dining room into the kitchen and set the blood bag on the counter, next to his iPhone, which blinked with a notification. America washed his hands and face, also taking off his shirt and took it to the washroom in the back. Luckily, most of the blood had ended up on his skin, and like other nations, America had nothing to worry from the HIV-positive blood other than maybe some flu-like symptoms for a few days.

Too impatient to warm it up, America opened the blood bag and started drinking from where the medical PVC would be attached. The coldness made his nose wrinkle, and bagged blood only patted his hunger, like drinking a kale smoothie in place of a meal. He needed a live donor every ten days (at most) if he wanted to keep from losing control.

Again.

Halfway through the bag, he unlocked his phone, finding a text from Canada and two from England, reminding him about the G7 meeting next month. It would be in London this year, and England warned America that they would not be putting everything off for two days because he missed a flight.

Late once and you never forget again. The corner of his mouth twitched. He texted them back, assuring them that he’d remember.

Germany hosted that year. He’d been angriest of everyone, though he’d kept it bottled up until he and America were alone.

“I want to break up,” America had practically vomited to shut him up.

He hadn’t been able to meet his eye; the words had been bitter in his mouth, the foul taste brought back with every swallow of human blood. His heart hurt, and America growled upon realizing that he’d started to cry again.

In truth, he had not forgotten about the meeting that year. It had been barely a month after he was Turned. He’d been fighting the hunger to the point of it causing him pain in a way that shredded the idea of time and made him believe he was already in Hell, sentenced to an eternity of torture.

He didn’t like thinking about those poor people. He still heard their screams. He still heard that woman’s pleading as she trembled through prayers for mercy and escape.

It was easier to believe he’d forgotten. His façade wasn’t just to give the other nations a mask to look at. It was so America could walk past a mirror without having a breakdown. It was so he could have some semblance of sanity.

Licking his lips, America set the phone back down onto the counter and dropped the empty bag into the trash, which was in the cabinet under the chrome sink. His fangs were extended, conscious thought needed to keep them retracted to where they were of normal length. The bottom canines were sharp as well, but they were smaller, barely noticeable. America had bitten his tongue numerous times after he’d first been Turned, and he still did it on occasion.

But if the vampire upstairs had any information, then, maybe, America wouldn’t have to be one of them much longer.

Maybe then he could look himself in the mirror. Maybe then he could win Germany back.

He just needed to find the one that had Turned him.

And eat his heart.


	2. The Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about any mistakes with the Pennsylvania Dutch; I kept it minimal. I usually try to find multiple translation sites to cross-check, but I wasn't able to do that this time. ;^;

As it turned out, blood-borne viruses _could_ affect vampires, giving her symptoms that began to ebb after the next day.

The fever would have fried a human (how someone undead could get a fever greatly piqued America’s interest), and infections covered much of the inside of her mouth. She’d shaken to the point of breaking her elbows and one knee in her restraints, and one hip and shoulder had popped out of socket.

America had left her alone the next day, documenting how long it took her to heal on minimal blood—healing from the virus itself had drained her of energy, making her need more than a measly pint of blood.

Plus, the longer blood was separated from the person it was taken from, the less potent the energy drunk in by the vampire, but America wasn’t about to bring in a human just to give a subject fresh blood.

Stealing form donations was bad enough. Aside from right after disasters and travesties, few were willing to donate, and America didn’t like taking blood that could be needed by those in the hospital.

Vampire healing capabilities was something America wished to study more, but he drew the line at hurting humans for his experiments. On top of that, his plane left tomorrow afternoon, and he couldn’t just leave the woman alone while he was in London.

He gave her one last pint of blood. He did it for each of his subjects—except for those that had escaped, or those he killed by accident in the middle of an experiment.

After a few minutes, America tried once more to get information out of her.

“Go to Hell,” she growled, eye narrowed. The pupil was so big, the iris could not be seen. “You’re a fucking demon.”

“Pot calling the kettle black?” America shrugged. “I’ve been called worse, and I’m running out of time, so why not give me something to work with, darlin’?”

“ _Shtarb, difel_.”

“ _Unmiglich_.” America smirked at her look of utter confusion. It was unlikely she’d met many who spoke Pennsylvania Dutch outside Amish country. “But if you have _nothing_ for me….”

It did not take long to cut her open, separate the necessary ribs, and yank out her heart. America had planned to make her unconscious if she’d offered information, but things were what they were.

The vampire’s heart was preserved along with the others, in his office; the lower shelves in the closet were running low on space now. He would have to find a new place to keep the others.

America sighed and wiped his hands with an antiseptic napkin kept on his desk in the darkroom. He then turned on his iPod, which was in a dock atop a short stack of books. Music played as he cleaned up, and while he was separating the left leg, starting at the knee, his phone started playing “Mr. Cellophane” from _Chicago_ —Canada’s ringtone.

Swearing, America hurriedly wiped his hands on another wipe. He turned off the iPod dock as he answered, expression immediately brightening out of habit, even if his brother couldn’t see.

“Hey, Mattie!” The cellphone was kept between his shoulder and ear as he got another antiseptic wipe to clean his wrists and forearms. It was amazing there was this much blood already, but, gratefully, it wasn’t as much as if she’d been full. “Checking on me again? I printed out my ticket already. Everythin’s in order.”

America flinched even before Canada was able to get out his question:

“What are you doing in the South? You’re usually in or by DC this close to a meeting to cram your notes.”

America hoped Canada couldn’t readily identify the accent beyond “South”. He probably could. The Acadians were originally from his territory (plus part of present-day Maine) before moving to Spanish Louisiana and developing the Cajun culture.

“Hiding a body in the swamp,” America answered flippantly. The best lies rested on a foundation of truth.

There was a pause on Canada’s end, and America tossed the wipe into the wastebasket as he straightened his neck, switching his cellphone to his other ear.

“Please don’t joke about stuff like that,” Canada said finally.

“Alright, alright.” America laughed the worry off. “I can bring you up some coffee grounds. It’s nice working at the café once in a while, though I prefer visiting during Mardi Gras. Way more fun than in Mobile. Mobile started Mardi Gras at my place, but, man, New Orleans is the place for a party. I like visiting more after _The Princess and the Frog_ , but, heh-heh, don’t tell the others that, ’kay? Hey, remember when I brought you and Maria to one of the parades and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember, Al,” Canada muttered quickly. He didn’t like that night being brought up, and America smirked. “Just making sure you have everything—”

Turning around, America interrupted, “Oh ye of little faith.” He stared at the torso and head on the floor. The leg he’d been working on was still partially attached, but the other leg and the arms were already wrapped up in plastic. “Everythin’ is under control.”

“Alright. I’m just making sure.” Canada sounded apologetic. “I do have faith, Al, it’s just things slip your mind sometimes, especially when it comes to the little details.”

“I get it.” America wondered which body parts he should dissolve in lye and which he should dump immediately. “I know I can be scatter-brained sometimes.” He chuckled. “So… want that coffee?”

Chuckling, Canada replied, “Sure. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Mattie.”

“See you in a few days then, eh?”

“Yep! G’bye!”

“Bye.”

America hung up and instantly frowned. His brother suspected something; he knew it. France had come _very_ close to catching America with a donor at the last world meeting, and if he’d noticed him and thought something amiss, he would’ve told Canada. Also, Romania had given him a look, like he knew.

Whatever. If no one was saying anything, he didn’t see much need for worry.

Lye would take too long, even if he only wanted to dissolve the limbs. America settled for dismembering, setting aside the head. That was skinned and boiled, the skull staying in the office for study, the teeth most notably. He hadn’t figured out how the canines magically became fangs after the Turn—simple “magic did it” wasn’t good enough.

The torso and dismembered limbs got dumped later that night in a swamp, late at night when no one had been around to see him.

One nice thing about being Turned: excellent night vision. However, he had to be careful about letting people see his eyes; the pupils became vertical slits like a cat’s, red ringing them.

By the time the body dump was all done, it was nearly midnight, and the burning in America’s throat couldn’t be ignored. He’d fed only five days ago, but the Hunger was making him antsy.

The plane ride to London was going to be hell if he didn’t find at least one donor tonight. He wished he’d just killed that vampire earlier, or that England hadn’t been so insistent about him getting there before the rest.

The best way to ensure one wasn’t late was to arrive early, after all, so they’d planned for America to get there a few days before the others were to arrive. His boss had already approved the matter and had sent the notes to New Orleans.

She didn’t know why America was so far from the capital, but seeing it was the first year of her first term, her highest previous office having been a senator of Oregon, she was still getting used to the idea of personifications of the world’s nations. All America had needed to do was say it was “nation business,” and his boss had waived him away, telling him to contact her if he needed anything.

America preferred big cities as a hunting ground. If he used hiking trails, camp grounds, _et cetera_ as usual haunts, media was more of an issue. In a big city, even if he accidentally killed the donor (which, unfortunately, had happened several times), depending on where America left them, the act usually went more or less unnoticed.

New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston… Those were America’s favorite hunting grounds, but the thing about New Orleans was that so many people here were superstitious. It wasn’t unusual to have people scaling fences to sneak into one of the most-definitely-haunted cemeteries, whether armed with a tape recorder, EMF reader, pendulum, Ouija board, Tarot cards, or nothing but their curiosity.

If a person near one of those cemeteries were to suddenly go unconscious and then wake up next to a mausoleum… Well, they may be frightened, but they would also have a story to tell. It was a service, really.

As the famous (or infamous as some might prefer) Madame Leveaux was buried, America preferred to stay away from there. He had his own superstitions, and one of his agreements with Ms. Marie was that he would leave her with peaceful sleep. He couldn’t stop others from performing rites on her grave, but he gave her the space she had asked for from him.

In an open, currently unused tomb, America squatted. The tomb was divided into an upper half and a lower, and he stayed on the upper, ready to leap once the time was right.

He waited, hood up and hands in the large pocket on the front. His mouth twitched, Hunger growing and seething. He needed to feed, and soon. He’d heard people coming this way. It was common for people to come here (no matter the time of day), as this cemetery was often used for shooting scenes in movies, like _Interview with a Vampire_. He’d seen some college students heading this way, one with a camera.

America would have to be careful not to be caught on film. Hopefully, they would split up. He’d counted seven, so groups of twos or threes were likely. They’d have flashlights, making finding them all the easier. America smiled at the thought, tongue running over the backs of his fangs as his heart sped up.

Soon, there was a chorus of shushing, coming from a nearby row. A male was speaking, likely at the camera, as he detailed the plans for the night:

“Okay, yo. We’re spending the whole night here at Lafayette Cemetery”—the accent said he was from the Midwest—“to see if we pick up any voices or ghosts running around. With me, Joel, is Nikki, James, Noah, and Liz. Noah and Liz are from here, and Nikki’s from Savannah, which is pretty much Georgia’s New Orleans. And get this: She’s a real-life witch. No joke.”

 _This just got interesting_ , thought America, smile growing. A self-proclaimed witch? Someone with family traditions? Someone who was more spiritually sensitive or had the Sight, like England? Or did she read books on the occult and decide to start practicing?

Any of those could give her credence (depending on the books and/or instructors). No matter how she got onto practicing witchcraft, she could be a possible obstacle for America. The thought made his heart pick up speed as adrenaline shoved its way through his veins. His muscles felt tight, and his fingertips started to drum over the slab of concrete holding him up in the tomb. He wanted to run, to chase. He wanted a fight over his next meal—

Ice melt constricted America’s veins, and he shook his head. He couldn’t think that way. He didn’t _want_ to think that way.

Oh yes, he did, a part of him purred.

 _No_ , stomped down another part. He was a hero, strong. He could fight these abominable instincts. He had to feed, but he did not have to enjoy it. He did not have to let the rush pour over and through him like a high no drug on Earth could ever deliver.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling his extended fangs; his Hunger seemed to grow into him, flowing through his veins and claiming his being.

Not necessarily possession.

At least, not possession from an external force. It was like having another persona take charge, like when one switched from work-mode to gym-mode or competition-mode.

The Hunger was still America, but it was a primal part of him that grew harder to keep in check the longer he went without feeding.

“James, follow Nikki to where the people who died of Yellow Fever were buried. Noah, I want you and Liz to start setting up the séance place.”

“And I thought you doing the Charlie Charlie Challenge was stupid,” another male sighed, likely Noah, as two sets of footsteps were already heading away.

“C’mon, man. This’ll get us more subscribers. Trust me. I’ll catch up in a minute. I remember some tombs open this way. I wanna see if we can get footage of Nikki getting into one of them to ‘feel its energy’ or whatever the fuck she does. I hope she remembered her cards and sachet-whatevers.”

“If all you’re gonna do is make fun,” said a female, Liz, “then you shoulda just let her stay at the dorms, and claim Aly’s a witch.”

“Aly hates this kind of stuff,” Joel groaned. “Anyway, Nikki looks the part, with her crazy blue hair and doom-and-gloom look. Besides, she knew she’d be made fun of from the start. You don’t claim to have powers or whatever unless you want attention.”

“Whatever.” America could almost hear Liz’s eye roll. “C’mon, Noah. We’ll leave Joel to get abducted by ghosts.”

 _Well, not ghosts_ , thought America as Joel responded, “I’m not going to be nice to her just because you have some girl-crush on her.”

Two sets of footsteps headed towards the Immaculate Conception Walk, not far from where America crouched but far enough.

Joel was about America’s height, maybe an inch or so taller. His hair curled at his ears and was light in color, possibly blond or light brown. His posture and face screamed “fuck boi,” though he had muscles claiming he could put up a good fight. Not against America’s strength, though.

In a swift motion, America was behind him, one arm around Joel’s trim waist and the other hand clapped over his mouth. The flashlight fell, and America kicked it before it hit the ground, sending it far down the way to keep them in darkness. Joel tried to scream against America’s palm as he attempted to lunge forward but unable to move either of them.

America bit down on the side of the man’s neck, feeling him seize and fall limp within moments. The numbing effect worked fast. Human saliva possessed opiorphin, which was more potent than morphine. Vampire saliva had a higher bioavailability of opiorphin, though blood was needed to help with creating more and circulating the chemical. It was what allowed vampires to withstand injuries that would cripple a human with pain.

The opiorphin also entered the donors, acting as a sedative. In theory, if a vampire were to repeatedly bite the same donor time after time, the donor could become addicted to being bitten, but America would rather not test this hypothesis.

What he had yet to discover, however, was how having a combination of vampire saliva and blood in one’s system Turned one into a vampire.

America smelled musk, chlorine, wet soil, and hay left out in the rain. He tasted vanilla beans soaked in sugar-tinged absinthe, tobacco soaked through with coffee that had a smoky aftertaste, vodka dampened by charcoal paste, and mint leaves wet with black tea.

Those tastes slipped under the stronger taste of iron coins taken from a sweaty hand, both unpleasant and euphoric. Try as he might, America could not fight the rush. It pounded him like ocean waves against a cliff side.

Hand moving from the man’s mouth to the other side of his neck, America felt for his pulse. It had quickly grown weak, and the nation slid his fangs from the wound, licking the two holes to speed up the clotting process. He tasted musk and dirt from the man’s neck, part of which felt scruffy. America set him in the tomb where he’d been waiting, sitting up and to where he was less likely to fall out.

Licking his lips, America headed for the Immaculate Conception Walk, waiting as Liz paced around the semi-circle of unlit pillar candles.

“I’m going to find him,” she said, looking over at Noah, who leaned against a mausoleum, looking tired. “Stay here and wait for Nikki and James.”

“’Kay,” Noah yawned, redoing his low ponytail. His dark, straight hair went past his narrow shoulders, and he wore large, Hipster-style glasses. “Knock yourself out.”

He looked bored, disinterested with the entire cemetery deal.

It was almost too easy sneaking up on him. He’d been about to nod off when America pressed one hand against his mouth. Noah barely put up a fight, probably thinking it was one of his friends pulling a prank. He gave one shutter when America bit into his neck, finally realizing that this wasn’t a joke before slipping into a stupor.

He smelled of old books, mothballs, ink, and molding tea leaves. He tasted of black tea steeped for too long, old cranberry sauce over dark chocolate mixed with salt, burnt bread soaked through with olive oil, petroleum jelly soaked with aloe, and foam from a draft of dark beer.

America started to feel himself grow full when he heard a shout:

“You’re _nuts_ , Nik! There’s no one here but us. Well, other than the gh—”

“ _Hurry_!” It was the witch. “There’s someone—some _thing_ else here, and it’s bad news. I just know it.”

James muttered something unintelligible.

Smirking, America extracted his fangs from Noah’s neck and licked the wounds to close them. He let him fall and stood, body thrumming from the rush of a feeding. He licked his lips and took off, remembering the camera James held. There were a lot of lies America could tell his boss or the other nations, but if a video of him in the cemetery with a blood-covered mouth ended up online, he was toast.

“Holy shit!” called James, voice an octave higher than before. “Noah! Oh my God what happened?! Liz! Joel! Get over—Nik, where the hell are you going!”

From where America had attacked the swimmer, he heard Liz shout, “Oh my God, _Joel_!”

“ _Nik_!” James shrieked. “Goddammit if you get yourself killed—”

America didn’t hear the rest, lunging over mausoleum to reach the outer wall more quickly.

Just outside the cemetery, Nikki had caught up and leaped forward, arms wrapping around America’s legs and bringing him down. They landed hard, and it took barely any work for America to twist and throw the girl off his legs. He growled instinctively, torn between attacking and fleeing.

The logical part screamed at him to run. This was one of his citizens, and the close proximity brought an abundance of information. He felt a connection to her unlike any connection between two humans. There was a special bond countries had with their people, regardless of party or path or philosophy.

He hadn’t experienced all this with Joel and Noah; he had been the vampire rather than the nation, but with the vampire fed, he didn’t have the Hunger clouding his mind.

“What the hell did you do to them?” Nikki demanded, trying to sound less frightened than she was.

She didn’t have her flashlight with her anymore; it had rolled over by the wall in the scuffle. Instead, she held out a bundle wrapped in dark-colored cloth. Something for protection. America could sense pieces of oak wood and garlic cloves inside it. It wouldn’t harm him like with normal vampires, but he still felt the need for caution.

America ran without saying a word, and Nikki did nothing to follow.


	3. Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence in the latter half of the chapter, and the GerMerica angst should come about soon.

The sky was overcast when America arrived. His duffel was slung over one shoulder, and his suitcase rolled behind him on the cobblestone path winding through the garden to the front door. The cloud cover was thinner than before, like muslin. It held a darker tint of grey, though, but England paid barely any mind.

“Hey, Artie!”

 The Brit’s mouth twitched at the nickname. It was kinder than others he’d been given over the centuries, but he didn’t like how juvenile it sounded, especially the way it bounced off America’s tongue.

Leaning against the doorframe, England waited until the younger nation at the cement steps before speaking. “Punctual, for once.” America’s pout didn’t faze him. “I made stew for dinner, and I am currently baking bread to go with it.”

Standing on the bottom-most step, America was England’s height. “Oh, so that’s what’s burning.”

Blinking, England slowly turned. “What…?” He didn’t smell—oh God, there it was.

He rushed to the kitchen without another word, America announcing that he’d put his things in his usual room upstairs.

The bottoms of most of the baguette slices were black, but it was just the bottoms. They were still edible. Sighing, England slid the cookie sheet out of the oven and onto the stove. Next to it was the crockpot; at least the stew was alright. America always complained about it having no flavor, but what did he know? The lad deep-fried sticks of butter for God’s sake.

On the bar between the kitchen and den, Flying Mint Bunny appeared and started pacing. He kept his small, pink nose to the marble, and his wings ruffled. He had a collar of fur around his neck like a mane, colored a pale shade of green, almost white. The shorter hairs close to his head were raised, and his long ears were pinned back, straight arrows that pointed towards his cotton-ball tail.

“What is it?” asked Arthur in a low voice.

Suddenly looking up, Flying Mint Bunny cocked his head. His golden eyes were lined with black fur that made it look like he wore winged eye liner. His ears stood up, and his wings gave a nervous ruffle.

“Oh, is Mr. America here?” he guessed in his small voice that sounded barely more than a squeak. “He must be who I’m smelling.”

Like the other fey, Flying Mint Bunny could tell when America was here by England lowering his voice. He didn’t like the younger nation making fun of him or calling the fey his imaginary friends. The boy may not have the Sight or believe in magic, but that didn’t give him license to throw comments towards anyone else. It sometimes made England want to cast a little hex on him, but he always held back.

America wasn’t totally ill-mannered about it. He still cared for the unicorn England gave him. Just a few months ago, America Snapchatted him a picture of Orchid eating.

 **Can’t c him but the foods disappearing so guess thats him,** the message had read.

Thinking back on it made England smile; while rough around the edges and on the explosive side personality-wise, America did have a sweet side much closer to that hero persona he was fond of wearing. The boy had to know most everyone could see it was a mask; they all wore one, with plenty more to put on when one started to crack.

England retrieved a spatula and started prying the slices of bread off the cookie sheet. Flying Mint Bunny watched from the bar, slowly inching himself towards the decanter. The deep red wine, a gift from France, needed to be aired out for a couple more days before England considered it drinkable.

“Don’t even think about it,” England told him, getting down a large plate for the toast. “Last thing I need is to chase after some drunken fey.”

Ears folding back again, Flying Mint Bunny pouted. “But we won’t get to speak much for a while. I’ll need _something_.”

“I’ll give you some cider and barely cakes later,” England promised, voice fast and barely above a whisper. He kept his eyes on the toast, and Flying Mint Bunny turned around as America came down the stairs.

Hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket, which was zipped closed, America grinned, his eyes bright and wavy hair bouncing. Had it been humid in Virginia? America’s hair was often straight, but it curled when the weather turned hot and humid. On that blasted island during WWII, his hair had been long corkscrews by the time they were rescued.

“So when’s supper being served? I’m pretty hungry.” There was more of a drawl to America’s voice than usual.

“You’re always hungry,” England deadpanned, swearing when the bottom of the last piece of toast stuck to the cookie sheet. The rest of the slice had torn off and landed on the counter.

America bit back a chuckle, eyes darting to a specific part of the bar before meeting England’s eyes again. It had been such a quick glance, it could have been nothing, but the look in Flying Mint Bunny’s eyes when he turned to England told him it was true: Somehow, America saw him.

Maybe not in the sense England could see the fey, but he _knew_ there was something there, even if he did not know what.

Interesting.

“There’s beer and cider in the fridge,” England told him, getting out a couple of bowls. “A beer for me.”

“Sure thing, Artie!”

America grabbed two beers, and England spooned stew into the bowls as Flying Mint Bunny watched the younger nation with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

 _What are you thinking?_ England wanted to ask.

The fey had been acting oddly around America the past couple years, but they never said why. Mustardseed, Puck, and Buttercup were discussing the matter in hushed tones at the last world meeting, but as soon as they noticed England listening, they quieted.

America seemed normal enough—normal as he could be anyway.

More and more people (youth especially) were getting interested in New Age ideas and the occult at America’s place, so maybe that had something to do with it? Maybe with their rising numbers, America was starting to gain the Sight? He’d always been able to ghosts at least, much as the young nation hated the gift.

As per usual, America jumped into conversation, talking about much and little at the same time. Several times, England had to remind him not to speak with his mouth full, but he had to admit the chatter was soothing in its predictability.

“… you’d probably complain about the heat, though.” America’s accent shifted as he spoke of something called the FLIMP Festival in Alabama. “I tried entering once, but it didn’t turn out the way I wanted—”

“Oh my, that _is_ a shock,” England muttered sarcastically, knowing that the younger nation’s artistic skills were atrocious at best.

“—and six feet by six feet is a lot bigger than I thought it’d be…”

England finished his food before America did and prepared a cup of tea as he started talking about Pride parade he attended in New York City this past July. Sometimes England wondered if he ever got any work done in a timely manner.

 _Likely not_ , he thought as he discarded the teabag and opened a tin next to the electric water heater. He took three shortbread cookies for himself and interrupted America’s description of one of the floats just long enough to tell him there were brownies in the pantry.

“Thanks, Artie!” America said around a full mouth, nearly done with his food. “I think I’ll wash up first. Long flight, y’know?”

“Of course.”

After shoveling the rest of the food into his mouth, America put the dishes in the chrome sink and headed for the stairs.

Soon as he was gone, Flying Mint Bunny reappeared, and England went to fetch his stash of barely cakes along with a bottle of hard apple cider in the fridge.

“Cream too?” he faery requested, tilting his head.

“No.” England set one of the cakes on a saucer and placed it in front of Flying Mint Bunny. “You look… fluffier… than usual. That’s why you’re only getting one cake.”

As England poured the wine into a small bowl, Flying Mint Bunny huffed but ate the offering.

Once the winged rabbit was satisfied, England put the rest of the wine and cakes away and went back to the table. Next to the centerpiece was a book he’d been reading, and he read while he drank his tea and nibbled on his cookies.

By the time America returned, dressed in a Captain America T-shirt and fleece pajama bottoms, England was nearly finished with his novel.

“You doing alright?” England asked carefully as his brow furrowed.

America seemed a tad agitated, though he tried to hide it. He kept his wide mouth in a slight, content curve, but his eyes were a shade darker. His hair was also damp, meaning he’d only used a towel when he usually used a dryer to ensure his hair dried straight.

While America started chattering again, but at a slightly lower volume than before, his nostrils flared. His bangs were combed back away from his face and tucked behind his ears, and while it was hard to tell at first, he looked tense.

What was going on?

Grabbing a brownie from the pantry, America went on about a jazz festival in Oregon he hoped to attend next February.

England’s head suddenly rose as he felt a warning twinge in his aura, like holding a bow and arrow and someone coming up from behind to pull the string. He slammed his book as he got up, America shutting up momentarily.

“Yo, what’s going on?” he asked as England fast-walked to the front door.

That was what he’d wanted to ask him.

Had America sensed the presence? Before England? When he’d been the one to put the wards in place?

Unlikely.

“Wait here, Alfred,” England commanded, absent-mindedly rolling his sleeves to above his elbows. “I just need to check something out for a moment.”

“You sure?”

England slammed the door shut instead of answering. He whispered a spell to enhance his night vision, catching movement by a copse of trees. In the distance, thunder rolled. The air felt thick, giving the surrounding darkness weight.

Quietly but quickly heading towards the trees, England heard movement from behind as he felt another pull at his aura.

There was more than one intruder, and they were dangerous. The wards didn’t react to humans, nations, or most fey. (England would end up with migraines from all the disturbances otherwise.) He’d forgotten the wards were even in place. He hadn’t tended them in a few years, which explained why whatever was here was able to get so close before England sensed anything.

Suddenly dropping to one knee, England spun around, head ducked and arms splayed out for balance. The person that tried to jump him hit the ground and rolled as three others from the trees sprang forward, fangs bared and eyes glowing in the scanty light of the half-moon.

Clouds were moving in quickly, threatening to cover the moon, England’s only light source. Even with the sight-enhancement spell, he would be greatly hindered with the moonlight taken away.

“Arthur!”

Still on one knee, England raised his hands and caught the axe America threw his way. He spun as he got to his feet, gaining enough momentum to get the blade halfway through the first vampire’s neck. America kicked one with both feet, twisting his body in midair to land on his hands and knees. He yanked the other vampire’s leg, forcing it on its stomach, as England yanked the axe out and swung around behind him, scalping a red-haired vampire trying to attack him from behind.

He brought the axe back around, the blade sinking only partially into the vampire’s neck. He yanked the blade out and swung again, forcing the vampire back as it grasped at its neck; his head hung limply and rolled with his panicked motions.

England danced back and brought the axe down, splitting the skull of the first vampire that attacked him, who was starting to heal herself, just as one tackled him to the ground.

The axe was out of reach of his left hand, and England forced himself to flip over and bring his knees up, forcing the pale-eyed vampire’s face over his. Bridging on his shoulders, England brought up his right elbow, nailing the vampire right in the temple before it could bite down on his neck.

Scrambling up, England got the axe as America ripped off the head of a vampire with sheer force. Blood sprayed his T-shirt and bottoms, and there was a wild expression on his face that made a shiver slip down England’s spine.

Unable to think on it, though, England turned and brought down the axe before the pale-eyed vampire could rise. This time, England got the blade through the spine, severing head from body. England kicked the head away and whirled around just in time to bring the axe up, to sever a blonde vampire’s hand.

It stumbled and screeched, baring its fangs.

The thunder sounded closer, and ink-black clouds moved closer to the moon.

America tore off the blonde vampire’s head and threw it towards the woods as the body slumped to the ground. His shirt was torn, and he his hands shook, making his punch to another vampire’s face off-center. The force caused the vampire to face behind its body, and America finished the job by ripping off its head.

England slashed at the vampire that pinned him down before, tearing through her dress, and she leapt forward, hissing. England did not have the time to bring the axe back for another swing, and his head, neck, and back were drenched with sweat.

Suddenly, England was knocked back, and he heard an “Ack!” followed by bones snapping and flesh tearing.

Axe forgotten, England scrambled to his feet and sprinted to America, who had thrown him several meters back.

The vampires were now dead, and America let out a line of oaths as he pulled the last one’s hand out of his lower abdomen. The creature’s sharp nails had poked out of his back, and England placed one hand on America’s shoulder and another on his back as he whispered. The healing spell was a simple one that could only heal external damage.

Healing the wound completely required a special potion, which was in the basement.

Once the vampire’s hand was out of America’s abdomen, he collapsed, and England nearly fell on top of him grabbing him underneath his arms. He got himself underneath his left arm and started lugging him towards the manor, cursing the young nation’s height.

“Mustardseed!” England called after a loud exhale, sweat dripping into his eyes.

A sprite appeared to England’s left, dragonfly-like wings fluttering too fast to be seen. “Yes, boss?”

Mustardseed had skin the color of honey and black eyes that looked too large for his heart-shaped face. He had the ears of a bat, and his arms were long, fingertips nearly reaching his backwards-facing knees.

“Take care of the bodies for me, will you?” England huffed.

“Just like old times.” Mustardseed smirked as England scowled. “I’ll get Puck and the others working on them, and Cottontail will secure the perimeter if you like.”

“Yes, please.” They were less than a meter from the front door now.

Mustardseed zipped away, and America moaned, blood-splattered glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

“We’re almost there,” England said, though he was unsure if America heard.

His eyes were squeezed shut, and he clutched at the open hole in his abdomen. Blood leaked through his fingers. His body was already working to heal itself, but America was sure to be bedridden for a day.

 _He’s young and strong_ , thought England. _Likely sooner, he’ll be back on his feet._

He could think about how to explain the vampires later. While America had vampire literature that was well-known throughout much of the world, he chalked up just about everything supernatural as fiction. This had to be a huge blow to his worldview.

Just inside the door, England laid America on the carpet and ran to the basement. He was starting to feel the ache in his arms and legs, and it felt like there were abrasions on his back. His trousers were torn, especially on the right leg, and his pain struck the knee with each step.

He ignored it all and got the potion.

“Mm…,” America groaned from the foyer, teeth clenched. “Eng… En….”

“Hush,” England ordered, uncorking the bottle. He dropped to his knee, more pain igniting through the right one. “This will sting.” He forced away America’s hands and poured the murky liquid into the gaping wound.

Back arching, America swore heavily and loudly, and England had to push down on his shoulder to keep him from rolling over.

After the initial sting from the nettle and tea tree oil, the potion was supposed to be soothing, not painful.

England stopped the bottle and placed it onto the long table against the wall in the foyer, wondering if the potion was too old.

Trembling, America groaned and hissed, turning away from the Brit. England allowed it. His earlier spell, paired with America’s fast healing, already seemed to be working.

Although… Maybe it was just the adrenaline making everything seem to pass by in slow motion, but America didn’t seem to be healing as fast as he used to. There were all kinds of variables that went into how quickly a nation healed or whether they caught sickness or not, but the nagging feeling of something not being quite right returned, unable to be shaken.

Falling back, England’s head hit the wall, and he closed his eyes. He sat with one leg bend and one straight out, and he just sat, trying to drag sufficient amounts of air into his lungs. He felt as though he’d been holding his breath throughout the entire fight.

The front door closed (likely Puck or Buttercup), and all the rain the clouds had been hoarding throughout the day plummeted to the earth. The lights flickered, and when England opened his eyes, he jumped.

America’s nose nearly touched his, mouth a straight line and eyes open only a crack—England could not even see their color.

“Alfred…?” England’s voice shook, fear bowling through his veins even when he couldn’t locate the reason to be afraid, let alone this afraid. “You need to lie down. Allow me some rest, and I’ll escort you to your—”

“I’m so sorry, Arthur….” America’s lips barely moved when he spoke.

“Sor—?”

England’s words were severed from his thoughts as his eyes went wide. Pain shot up and down his neck where America sunk in his fangs, the feeling soon dropping him into a stupor. His eyes became hooded, and a fog slowly moved over his mind.

“Y… you’re a….”

The fog enclosed England’s mind, and he dropped into unconsciousness.


	4. Big Brother

England had tasted of nettle steeping in rose water, lavender sprinkled over sugared lemon peel, burnt bread soaked in cream, a mouthful of ground cinnamon quickly followed by ale, and dark chocolate melted into curry sauce.

His smell had been muskier and stained by the mold- and rust-ridden metal stench of vampire blood. Usually, he smelled of lemon verbena soap; talcum powder; decaying rose petals mixed with cedar chips and newly-turned earth; and fading blueberry, rosemary, and copal incense smoke.

America took a long sip of coffee in attempt to erase the remnants of England’s blood. The dark liquid burnt his tongue, but the taste did not fade.

He’d never had another nation’s blood before (for obvious reasons); briefly, he wondered how Germany’s blood would taste, how it would feel on his tongue.

Germany smelled of a still-smoldering forest right after a storm smothered the inferno, metal shavings mixed into beer foam, and ancient books cracked open for the first time after decades of neglect.

The amount of willpower it had taken to stop himself from sinking his fangs into Germany’s neck had sickened America. It sickened him now as he shook the fantasy from his head. The shock and hurt on Germany’s face when America had shoved him back and turned to leave continued to break his heart piece by piece.

Maybe vampires were soulless by choice; no need to agonize over guilt if the ability to feel it wasn’t there.

Pressing the tip of his tongue against the back of one fang and then the other, America swallowed.

In front of him on the table was the notes on vampires he’d brought with him—the last three journals. They were all leather-bound and made with three rings and a metal interior spine, like binders. Two had buckles to keep them shut, while the newest had suede string that wrapped around the middle three times, the compass charm supposed to tuck underneath the strings to keep the journal closed.

Binders were better in general, so that America could add or replace pages with ease. Since he was a horrible artist, he took pictures. Almost all of his houses held darkrooms; while he couldn’t draw or paint, he had an eye for finding just the right angle and lighting—not that this helped in his documentation.

“Where is it…?” he muttered as the timer started making that TARDIS noise from _Doctor Who_. “And I’m the geek.”

The area smelled of lemon and lavender, and when America checked the cookies, they were golden brown on the bottom. He took out the cookie sheet and put them on the stove, sighing in relief. In the trash can were two failed batches and a massive glob of fail-dough. He cooked fine, usually, but his first attempts rarely turned out well.

At least this batch of cookies looked fine. The frosting base was in a glass bowl on the counter, covered by wax paper to keep out any insects—or “imaginary friends” with a sweet tooth.

America (now) knew England’s fey friends were real, but he was unable to see them. After overhearing a conversation between France and Canada a few years ago, it seemed like Canada also could not see them, whereas France could.

Sometimes America sensed when fey were nearby, like one in the kitchen last night during dinner. He could sometimes even catch a shimmer in the air and a scent. It was a base-scent, letting him know the species, if that’s what one could refer to them as.

Back home, Orchid the unicorn smelled of silver shavings mixed into barley and oats. At dinner, America smelled bittersweet and raspberries, though airy, like a scented candle—not smoky like incense, like a fey he’d smelled outside last night.

Vampires had a very distinct scent: iron shavings slowly rusting in mulch, overpowering their personal human scents. The longer they were vampires, the more overpowering the stench became.

America did not have this scent; vampires always looked shocked at his strength, speed, and when he drank blood. He guessed it had to do with him being alive.

Yawning, America removed the wax paper and unscrewed the top for the lavender essential oil, processed so as to be edible. His nose wrinkled at the overpowering, floral smell and only added three drops to the icing. He then added three drops of lemon juice and stirred with a wooden spoon, closing his eyes as he listened.

The master bedroom was on this floor, past the staircase. It had a personal sitting room that looked like a sun room with the huge windows, and the huge poster bed had burgundy velvet curtains that went all the way around. America had tucked England under the sheets and duvet. He’d taken enough blood to kill a human, and blood loss took time to heal from, even for nations. It had been about thirteen hours since the fight, though, so he should be waking up fairly soon.

America placed three cookies onto a saucer and started preparing Earl Grey tea; the water in the electronic boiler was already hot. Outside, the rain had not ceased. Around midnight, it had slowed down, but it had picked up again at about six. Now, just past ten, it was a drizzle, but thunder rolling in the distance promised more to come.

 _So gloomy_ , thought America, conveniently forgetting about similar weather in Oregon and Washington.

While the tea steeped, the young nation went over to the table and started flipping through the oldest of the three journals. He was sure he’d seen that symbol before.

Every vampire last night (that America could see) had been branded with a symbol on the left sides of their necks. It had been an infinity sign broken with a curved line, like a crescent moon, piercing the top curve of the left loop.

America had seen it on one of his subjects, but he couldn’t remember which. They all bled together but for a few notable ones.

Had it been the vampire with rectangular pupils? The one with a mouthful of sharp teeth instead of just sharpened canines? The one that spoke seven languages, one of those languages being Coptic?

Grunting, America went to toss the mesh tea leaf holder into the sink and brought the tea and cookies into England’s room. The curtains around his bed were drawn, and the older nation breathed deeply and evenly. America set the food onto the nightstand and started heading back to the table when the doorbell rang.

Freezing in the hallway, next to a framed picture of England with his brothers, America went through a mental checklist. France wasn’t due until tomorrow morning, followed by Germany. Italy and Romano would be arriving around noon, and Japan wasn’t due until evening, Canada not long after.

The doorbell rang again, and America fast-walked to the door, looking out the peep hole.

Scotland. Over one shoulder was a duffel bag, and his rectangular, freckled face showed annoyance splashed with concern. His green eyes scanned the yard behind him, thin lips pressed together.

Of course England’s brothers would sense something had happened to him. America hit himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm for not realizing that sooner.

“What’s—”

Scotland pushed America aside as he bowled into the manor, long bangs falling over his eyes.

“What’s going here with Arthur, then?” he demanded as America kicked the door shut, trying not to scowl. “And don’t you tell me you don’t know what’s going on.” His gaze locked on the younger nation’s. “I can feel power coming from the front and back door, and power from his room, but it doesn’t feel like a spell he’s cast. That only leaves you.”

 _Dammit_.

Raiding the basement, America had found a jar of red brick dust. He had decided the spell the front and back doors as an extra precaution. This specific spell was a little unsanitary, but it was effective. So long as the vampire wasn’t invited inside, they shouldn’t be able to get in.

He had also created a mojo bag for Arthur as added protection. The ingredients burned vampires, and America had needed to wear gloves while making the charm. While garlic (the charm’s main ingredient) didn’t burn him, it could cause him a bit of skin irritation, and he got sick after consuming it—he had unfortunately found this out while eating lunch with Canada. Luckily, he’d been able to pass it off as a repercussion for binging on sweets the night before.

The mojo bag was currently tied around England’s wrist. America had felt its power just delivering the cookies and tea; an undead vampire wouldn’t be able to stand being within three feet of him, so long as he kept hold of the charm.

Instead of answering, America turned left into the parlor, which led to the kitchen.

“Hey!” Scotland followed.

The scent of crushed juniper berries mixed with whiskey became stronger, matching his irritation. His anger was like a fan to fire, but after taking six pints from England last night, America was able to stomp down the monster within. He was hungry again—he’d lost a good bit of blood, and whatever ingredients had been in that potion England poured into his wound had made things worse—but he wasn’t about to lose control.

Yet. If Scotland didn’t calm down, America might not be able to force his hunger down for long.

Vampires tended to “latch” onto certain emotions, like a food preference. Lust seemed to be more common for older vampires, who had learned to keep control of their hunger enough to wait while they seduce their victims. They were also more likely to kill their victims. Younger vampires often went after fear, leaving their victims traumatized but alive. For America, he was attracted to anger.

World meetings have been his biggest test of control thus far.

America went to the table, grabbing the napkin, where he’d drawn the symbol with a magic marker. He jutted out his hand, making Scotland stop short as he combed his hair back away from his face and looked at the drawing.

“Recognize it?” asked the younger nation, hearing Scotland’s heart rate start to slow.

He could smell smoke, like a candle’s flame had just been pinched out, but as the smoke faded, it took on the memory-graced tinge of honey mead and bread fresh out of the oven.

Scotland was calming down, at least, but his concern was growing.

“Someone came with this on them?” he asked, voice softer than before. He took the napkin from America’s hand to get a closer look. “I’ve seen it before, but… What are you looking at? Those England’s journals? Good luck. His handwriting’s worse than my cat’s claws dipped in ink and scratching up a piece of paper, and he’s never been good at taking notes unless he expected others to read them.”

It was true, and America’s journal entries had been little better until his Revolution, when Prussia instilled in him the importance of keeping his days trapped in ink. Much of a nation’s memory relied on their citizens, recorded history, and collective ideas of what was. This often led to disagreements between nations over what had happened, and Prussia had believed he had found the cheat code to this by recording each day meticulously in journals.

America wasn’t sure if it worked; Prussia didn’t like to share what he’d written.

And America’s journals read more like studies and outlines than diaries.

“No.” America set aside the oldest of the three journals. He didn’t see any pictures of the symbol on the vampire’s neck. He knew he’d taken a picture and put it into the journal he was using at the time, he was fairly sure the vampire had short hair, and he was almost certain it had been one of his subjects within the past six months. “They’re mine. Arthur’s in his room, asleep, but he should be awake in around an hour, I’d wager.”

“They’re…”

Slapping a palm down on the second journal when America pulled it forward, Scotland grabbed the younger nation by the ear, forcing him to turn around and face him.

“ _Ow_ -ow-ow-ow!” _Why couldn’t Wales have come instead?! At least_ he’s _calmer!_ “What in hell?”

Rubbing his ear while Scotland crossed his arms over his broad chest, America pouted, feeling like he was a kid again. Did all of them do the ear-thing? He’d always assumed only England did that, but he was the youngest brother, so maybe he just picked it up from his own childhood.

“What the fuck do you mean these are yours?” Scotland pointed at one of the journals, the gesture like a person pointing at their dog’s ‘accident’ in the living room. “I swear to God, if you’re poking your nose into whatever brought a hoard here—”

“I don’t _know_ what they were doing here!” America combed his hair back from his face with his fingers. “Every vampire I’ve seen hunted alone. I have no idea what happened, but that symbol”—he pointed at the napkin Scotland held in his hand on his hip—“is the only clue I’ve got right now.”

“Well, that’s one question, but another I’m more interested in is why the bloody hell you even _have_ these notes! By what I hear from Arthur is that you wouldn’t touch anything magical with a hundred-meter pole!”

Those sounded closer to Romania’s words, actually, when America had tried to ask him some questions on vampire lore not long after getting bitten. Romania was still suspicious as to why the younger nation had been suddenly so interested in such stories, and he had probably said something to England.

Tongue running over the top row of his teeth, America looked away briefly as he stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He was going to figure it out after England woke up anyway.

Swallowing, America made his fangs extend, the pain sharper than usual. “Sorta of a personal issue,” he replied, making sure to move his mouth so as to show his fangs.

The napkin fell to the tile floor, Scotland’s dark green eyes wide.

There was a brief shock of burnt wood and crushed leaves, soon replaced by the scent of crushed juniper berries mixed with whiskey. America was up against the wall next to the wide window behind the dining table, and he also smelled bittersweet and raspberries. The faery that had been here last night was again in the room, watching.

Eyes closed, America grasped Scotland’s wrists. They were the same height, but Scotland had more bulk, giving him a more obvious muscular physique.  His fingertips didn’t touch when wrapped around the Scotsman’s wrists, but he loosened his grip slightly when he heard a pained grunt and felt himself crushing the bones. He sometimes did that when he wasn’t watching his strength, worse now with the vampire blood in him.

“Did you bring them here?!” Scotland demanded. “Don’t tell me _you_ hurt Arthur!”

When angry, Scotland could become blinded to all but his target, and much as he ragged on him, he was protective of England—of all his siblings.

And right now, he didn’t see America; he saw a pair of fangs. He saw a creature that hurt his little brother.

The crushed juniper and whiskey smell was overwhelming. It was like a kick to America’s hunger. He felt it stir and rise within him, roused more by his speeding heart and the threat keeping him pinned to the wall.

 _No_ , America thought (or spoke?) as black stars gathered at the edges of his vision.

“No you didn’t bring them here, or no you didn’t bite Arthur?!” Scotland grunted again. “ _Fuck_!”

America was gripping his wrists too tightly, but he was unaware as his eyes flew open, vision distorting. His pupils were reshaping to slits, and red always ringed the black, like rays of a dying sun trying to reach around the moon blocking it from view.

Scotland’s heart was beating fast and hard, blood pumping with adrenaline. A musky smell rose as sweat beaded along the redhead’s hairline and the back of his neck. Seeing those eyes reminded him of the monster he’d grabbed by the collar, but the suddenly-pale face showed he also now saw the nation gazing at him, showed the fight taking place in his mind.

The attack last night after such a long flight, followed by next-to-no sleep, plus all the stress of placing those protective charms, still feeling ill-effects from whatever had been in that damn potion, and searching for just what that symbol was…

And now Scotland’s anger stroking America’s hunger…

His pounding heart…

America clawed at the hunger, trying to force it back, but he was too weak, too tired.

Planting one foot on the wall behind him, America sprung forward, using Scotland’s surprise to force his arms to his sides as they fell. He pulled himself up enough to land so his knee ended up planting right over Scotland’s diaphragm, forcing air from his lungs.

Still gripping his wrists and holding Scotland’s arms so they were twisted at the elbows, America grinned, glasses down the bridge of his nose. Scotland tried to arch his back to throw America off, but the movement made pain rocket through his arms, and he cursed.

America was almost at his neck when an invisible force yanked him back, Scotland shouting an oath when the sudden motion made America break his left arm.

The back of America’s head hit the wall, hard, and another invisible force struck him in the temple. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.


	5. Bastard Fey Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler, but the information is important for later on.

England’s hands still shook even after eating half the cookies. He was full but hungry at the same time. He couldn’t force another bite down without risk of vomiting, but he felt weak, like he hadn’t eaten in days. Even lifting his mug to his tips was a struggle, but no way was he going to ask Scotland for help.

The twat was in the basement right now, still shaken over what had happened a few hours ago. He and Flying Mint Bunny had taken turns describing what happened.

Well, “taking turns” was too generous. The two kept interrupting one-another to the point of yelling over each other. It had been grating on England’s mind, high-pitched sirens in his ears. Scotland's left arm had been broken, but he dodged any questions of whether he was fine, focusing instead on England's health. It was more out of pride than concern, England was sure, but he'd left it alone. Scotland would heal soon enough.

What England needed now was peace and quiet as he healed. Flying Mint Bunny sat on one of America’s journals, next to the page showing a photograph of a symbol on someone’s neck. By the journal was a napkin with the same symbol crudely drawn in permanent marker. Downstairs, Scotland searched for references to the symbol; England was sure he’d seen it at some point in his past.

Unfortunately, his collection matched Prussia’s, but he was nowhere near as organized. His occult collection was the only thing England didn’t keep in order, and he deeply regretted this now.

A bit of lukewarm tea sloshing over the rim of the TARDIS-shaped mug when England slammed it down onto the table, he looked at the sachet that had been tied to his wrist. He hadn’t let go of it since he’d woken up and found it, though its smell made Flying Mint Bunny wrinkle his nose. The hemp bag and twine kept pieces of brimstone and garlic cloves, a ward against evil, vampires and other rogue fey especially.

That was essentially what vampires were: rogue fey.

 _Bastard children_ was probably more accurate.

The truth had been lost to even the fey themselves, but vampires were said to have been sired by a faery mating with a woman meant to be tithed to Hell. She ended up giving birth inside the tunnel leading to Hell’s gate, but instead of an infant, what came out was a sentient shadow that managed to escape to the Faery realm. It smelled of iron due to its human blood, keeping the guards at bay long enough for it to escape to Earth.

There, the shadow solidified into the First Vampire. Neither dead nor alive, it was named an abomination by Heaven and Hell. It was said that vampires kept their souls, but as the years wear on, the soul died.

This thought sent a shiver up England’s spine as he thought about the lad upstairs, asleep in bed.

England shook his head and then instantly regretted it, the world tilting around him as it spun faster. He took deep breaths and swallowed the bile inching up his throat. Flying Mint Bunny made a concerned chirp-like sound, and England waived him off, or he thought he did.

His limbs were heavy. The air felt like gelatin, and it leaked through his head, spreading over his mind in attempt to stop his thoughts altogether.

Romania had gotten bitten centuries ago, and while England wouldn’t go as far to say he’d trust him with his life, he _did_ trust him.

America just needed to learn control, and who better to teach him control but another vampire?

 _He should be here soon_ , thought the Brit through the mind-gelatin.

Bucharest to London was about a two-hour flight, but Romania would need an excuse to get away from his boss. It took a bit of convincing, Romania almost as allergic to paperwork as America, but he should be here tonight. He promised to text England when the plane landed.

Until then, Flying Mint Bunny had been occasionally going up into America’s room to sprinkle sleeping powder over him to keep him under. He was still Hungry, but England didn’t trust him to be taken anywhere with humans around. Someone could wind up dead, and nations didn’t like having more blood on their hands than was warranted.

Many (if not all) of them had been blood-thirsty at one point or another, triple for empires. Many lives were paid as tithe for such power.

It made England wonder if nations, too, were fey bastard children.

After a few more sips of tea, England pushed the mug aside and motioned for Flying Mint Bunny to bring the journal towards him.

“You should rest,” the creature protested.

“I’ve rested quite enough,” England muttered unconvincingly.

He could still hear the deep gulps as his blood was swallowed by one he had raised.

Another shiver ran down his spine, and Flying Mint Bunny nudged the journal over towards England’s trembling hands. They were so pale, his veins stood out. He stuck the sachet into his pocket.

Swallowing bile again, England wrinkled his nose and tried to read. America’s script was crowded and in half-cursive, half-print, as though he couldn’t decide which to stick with. Sometimes the letters leaned so far to the right, he was close to writing vertically. Other times, the letters were perfectly straight, though still crammed in together. It was the writing of someone desperate—desperate for what, England had a guess.

Romania had been desperate for the same, but he’d eventually learned to live with the curse.

England wasn’t sure if America could ever learn to live like this, which worried England greatly. The lad easily developed tunnel-vision, seeing only his goal and paying no mind to the means used to reach the desired end.

While oftentimes annoying, loud, and childish, it was hard to forget the young lad who thought to put stones into snowballs and push England’s soldiers into firing when such reaction appeared unwarranted. It was hard to forget the boy who swore on a Bible he didn’t want to get involved in war while keeping his other hand behind his back to collect payment for supplies. It was most definitely hard to forget that one particular weapon.

“I am Death,” he had murmured, when he’d thought no one was listening.

It almost made England wonder if America had sought this out somehow. Had he come across vampires, had become curious as to how they worked, and then had gotten bitten during (or even as part of) an experiment?

England shook his head again and pushed away from the table. He did not move, eyes squeezed shut, and hands gripping the table’s edge. He vaguely heard Flying Mint Bunny ask if he was alright, but if England opened his mouth to answer, he feared he would not be able to keep from vomiting this time.

He heard swearing from the basement, the ticking of the clock in the den, Flying Mint Bunny’s feathers ruffling, and the wind outside begin to howl.

Finally, he felt alright to sit up straight, and he mumbled affirmatives to the faery’s questions as he patted his head.

On the page before the picture with the symbol, was a description of the vampire wearing it:

_Subject 54 still keeps silent. He doesn’t even insult me, like the others. He has short, blond hair and dark brown eyes with vertical pupils that are red around the edges. He’s five feet and seven-and-three-quarters inches in height with broad shoulders and well-muscled legs. He does not growl or hiss, even when his fingernails are removed. The nails grew back to their starting length of three millimeters past his fingertips within thirty-two hours. This is after seventy-two hours of no blood._

_Five days without blood, and his fingernails are only half-way to his fingertips forty-eight hours after removal._

_Subject 54 makes no sound as I remove his stomach without anesthetic. Experimentation on past vampires has proven that the opiorphin in their saliva flows through their body, but without a regular diet, the opiorphin cannot take effect, leading to more and more pain when injury occurs. Yet, the only reaction Subject 54 gives is his eyes widening and lips pressing together more firmly. I believe he may have been subject to receiving pain in the past._

_He smells old, decades old, maybe. I try different languages, but he never reacts, making it impossible to tell what besides modern English he understands. Maybe he doesn’t know any other languages, but I can’t tell for sure._

_The symbol branded on the left side of his neck looks like a post-mortem injury. It must have been given after he was Turned, but he does not respond when I comment or ask about it, even under threat or action of torture._

Eyes closed, England drank more of his tea as he tried to scrub the image of America doing such things from his mind.

Yes, these were vampires, but they still very much resembled the humans they once were. America could not be so cold, could he?

Or was his mind so set on his end, the means were of no consequence?

**X X X**

The irony felt more joke than cruel.

Roused into wakefulness by a pounding headache, America found himself strapped to a bed, arms stretched out to his sides and legs strapped with belts so they couldn’t part, the belt at his ankles connected to the columns at either side of the footboard by chains. The cuffs on each wrist connected to the outer edge of the box spring beneath the mattress, and the young nation couldn’t even appreciate the irony through the fog of pain.

It started with the jabbing of a blunt knife at the top of his spine, sending waves over the back of his skull. It felt like fields of microscopic tuning forks had been farmed inside his ears, the different-toned ringing sending shockwaves of agony up the sides of his head where they met at his crown and dug down like a trephine.

It felt like small people were inside his head and were using white-hot iron rods to beat the backs of his eyes like war drums, while a clamp pinched the bridge of his nose, a screw making it tighten ever so slowly to draw out the pain.

 _And I deserve it all_ , he thought. Even thinking sparked more pain, but he couldn’t shut off his mind. _Won’t be shocked if this is because Scotland shot me in the head. Ten times._

Closing his eyes, America tried to focus on wiggling his toes. The tightness of the belts had cut off circulation long ago, so the motion was like a storm of needle-pricks. His arms felt little better. Worse, the pain made the Hunger stir, become restless.

He could smell England and Scotland downstairs, and it smelled like the faery creature had been in here.

The smell became stronger, the hinges of the door letting out a short and high-pitched screech as someone—well, some _thing_ —entered.

America wanted to tell it to fuck off, but he couldn’t move his lips. Also, he soon felt his mind grow heavier and heavier until he was completely encompassed by darkness and silence.

The next time he woke up, the pain had returned ten-fold, making him grind his teeth, fangs breaking the skin of his bottom lip. He vaguely heard murmuring through the fields of tuning forks in his ears, and something dabbed at his mouth and chin.

When his right shoulder popped out of socket, he realized he’d tensed to the point of yanking at the chains.

“… fixed in a moment.” There was slight accent to the words America recognized but could not pinpoint. He had heard the voice before, but he was unable to conjure any faces or names from memory.

He could barely drag out his _own_ name through the pain-induced fog.

It felt like hours before he finally laid still, the pain having ebbed long enough for him to realize his body was coated with sweat and that the lamp on the bedside table was on.

America cracked open his eyes but hissed at the brightness and faced upwards again as someone beside him sighed.

“… going to hurt,” the person said, America getting a blurred image as he gulped down air. “A lot.”

This time, the agony came from his shoulder as it was popped back into place; America blacked out for a few seconds, consciousness bobbing like the little ball on a fishing line, something yanking it below the surface as it tried to swim away.

Swallowing, America found his throat dry, and his veins hummed, Hunger clawing at him from within. There was no fighting it. He didn’t have the strength. He was too weak to even care about fighting it.

“Okay, you’ve suffered enough.”

Suddenly, the smell of cold blood hit America at full force, and before he could yank at his bindings again, a plastic tube slid into his mouth. He sucked, tasting watered-down copper and iron kept in a freezer. He tasted the slightest hints of brown sugar and salt, but the blood had been donated too long ago to get any more than that.

The bag emptied too quickly but was soon replaced by another, and then another.

Once the third was finished, the person proclaimed, “That’s good for now.”

Finally opening his eyes and vision blurred, America saw Romania, his dusty-brown hair clumped at the roots with oil, needing a wash. His crimson eyes twinkled in a teasing way, mouth (as always) in a smirk, like he was in on some joke no one else had figured out yet.

“Oh, God,” America murmured, feeling a drop of blood drip down the side of his mouth.

Just what he needed: More people getting wrapped into this.

America didn’t feel so bad about biting England anymore.


	6. The Anti-Trinity

Once it was deemed America was calm, Romania was given the key to unchain him. England was ordered to stay on the main floor by Scotland, and Romania suspected that America would end up unconscious again if Scotland was allowed into the room.

“He’ll cool down,” Romania said with a wave of his hand. “Your head hurt? Trust me, I’ve been hit with that rabbit’s sleeping dust before. The headaches are actually a pretty mild side-effect, but they get worse each time the dust is used, and I think England said the rabbit came up here, like, _six times_ …”

He kept babbling as he undid the chains and belts, and America rubbed his arms as he sat so his feet were on the ground. There was barely any pain left in his shoulder, but his head still pounded.

Romania was right about Scotland, though America really wished he could have avoided all of this. Scotland had a short temper but an even shorter grudge-period. It wasn’t even that he forgave anyone really; he simply forgot to stay angry and decided moving on was easier for everybody.

When the attacks were towards those he held loyalty to, the anger lasted longer, but in this case, the attacker was someone he enjoyed hanging around—they joked how America’s Oregon town of Boring was hitched to Scotland’s town called Dull. (Australia often joined in, joking that the two towns were having a three-way with his town, Bland.)

“… go into the city, and I’ll be watching, sure, but just think of me as… what’s-it that bug on the puppet’s shoulder.” Romania’s thin lips pressed together tightly as his ruby eyes looked upwards.

He always resembled a child more than a man, occasionally bonding with America and Prussia by pulling pranks on the other nations during world meetings. Hungary still brought her frying pan to each and every meeting and sat furthest away from Romania as was possible, and they’d thought Kenya was going to kill them for that prank on Seychelles with the goldfish.

But Seychelles _did_ get them back with help from Canada and India, so everything was cool with them now.

It had taken weeks for America to get the smell of curry out of his hair.

“Jiminy Cricket,” the younger nation supplied as he lay back down to stretch his legs and crack his back.

“Sure,” Romania replied, disinterested.

Still sore but the Hunger beginning to stir again, America stood up. As he blinked, his vision changed, details becoming less sharp and colors less… vibrant wasn’t a good word here. The vibrancy wasn’t lessened, but contrast didn’t sound quite right either. The brightness, though, had definitely changed, but in a way America could not readily supply a description for.

His eyes were back to normal, America always feeling like he’d had a huge part of his sight robbed from him whenever it happened.

“Interesting you got predator eyes.” Romania smirked as he yanked America’s hoodie from the closet, the hanger swinging from the sudden disturbance.

“Wha—?” America caught the hoodie and started putting it on with barely a thought.

“Predator eyes,” Romania repeated. “My pupils dilate. Yours change shape, but it’s predator, not prey.”

America had been wondering why there were three different pupils vampires could have, and he had been utterly confused why one was rectangular. That specific shape was common for creatures such as sheep, goats, horses, and octopi. Like vertical pupils, they allowed the creature to see in the dark, but the shape allowed for a wider view, perfect for prey needing to avoid getting eaten.

Vampires, in theory, were at the top of the food chain. It would make more sense for them to only have vertical pupils like felines. Vision that saw infrared waves as well as visual would make even more sense. Bees, for instance, could also see ultraviolet light, so—

America blinked hard and started pulling on his boots, which had been stashed underneath his bed. He wasn’t up for questioning why things were one way and not another. Not right now, anyway.

Sometimes he wondered if this obsession with finding out how vampires ticked stemmed from not being able to study the inner-workings of just how nation personifications came to be, but he did not have the mental energy for those mental gymnastics either.

“Story goes that there were three original vampires,” Romania said, holding up three fingers. “A priest supposedly sold his soul to Lucifer for the power to banish any demon back to Hell—don’t look at me like that; I didn’t come up with this—and the priest had two acolytes. He went bat-shit—heh, get it?—with power and created a cult and all that. Anyway, the three of them managed to escape the demons bringing them to Hell and basically became like the anti-Trinity.

“One had horns and eyes like a kind of wild goat. One had eyes like a cat and a tail. Some stories say he had bat wings too, so kinda like cartoon devils, but without the red skin and pitchfork, or horns. The priest remained looking the most human of all, but, like Adonis-handsome.

“So he was able to lure his victims, while the one with the tail hunted, but the goat-like one was immediately repentant and is to this day on the run from the others. It’s said the vampires he Turned help him hide so he can find out how to eradicate all vampires forever, and the vampires he Turned, Turned willingly, while the others are usually Turned against their—hey don’t yawn; I have to listen to your stupid ideas every meeting.”

“They are not stu—”

“So, anyway, they became mortal-ish demons. Still flesh-and-blood, but less-so on the blood-part—shut up, I’m not a writer or whatever; work with me—and had to feed every few days. See, Hell on its own has no real power. It got its power from the Fall of Man—you know, when Eve and Adam ate the fruit and got kicked out of Eden and all that. Demons fed off humanity’s sin to get the power they need. The anti-Trinity was like that, but they couldn’t feed on sin by itself like actual demon-demons can. They needed to drink blood, and soon they started Turning others, and here we are!”

Smiling so his fangs were visible, Romania stood in a _ta-da!_ pose, hands out like he was about to start tap-dancing.

America feared he might. “Except for Horny, who wants all vampires to die. How is he supposed to feed according to this story?”

“Willing donors, probably.” Romania shrugged. “But you musta found out by now you can drink straight from someone without killing them.” He suddenly straightened and blinked, skin paling. “Right?”

Standing, America kept his face blank. He looked over and noticed his cellphone charging on the nightstand. He unplugged it and slipped it into his back pocket, not bothering to check if anyone had called or texted. “Yeah. Had to call an ambulance for one girl once, though. Realized too late she was anemic.”

Romania’s stance eased, and there was a shine in his gaze, like he’d caused bloodbaths similar to those America had. However, neither said anything about it, and Romania gave a single nod before marching over to the window.

“What are—?”

“It may not be a secret anymore—well, with those two, anyway.” Romania pointed downwards. “But I still say the window is the funnest way out. Moldova and I still go roof-hopping once in a while.”

Raising his hood over his head, America inquired, “Is Moldova—”

“Come on!” Romania jumped out of the window, but not before a twitch of his mouth told America to stay away from the subject of Moldova for now.

Sighing, America couldn’t help but smile as he chased after him.

**X X X**

“They could have left through the front door,” murmured England as he poked at a chunk of meat with his fork.

From above, he heard thumps upon the roof, followed by a faint “Catch me if you can!”

England rolled his eyes and brought a piece of carrot to his mouth before feeling ill. He set the fork down and pushed the bowl away, dragging the journal close to read over Subject 54 again.

Scotland had ordered him to eat, but England’s appetite had yet to return. On top of that, it was getting late.

“I think I may have found something,” Scotland said, bringing a thick, leather-bound book from the basement. His left arm was still in a sling, but his shoulder kept twitching like he was about to chuck the cloth away any moment. “Also, your art has gotten _much_ better over the centuries.”

Rather than replying, England settled for a glare. The last thing he and Scotland needed was a petty fight in the middle of trying to figure all this out—especially with the others arriving soon.

Standing behind the chair across from England, Scotland pushed the bowl of stew forward and opened the tome towards the back. The pages were old and required a delicate hand. Rather than copying his old texts, England simply cast renewal spells on them, but this one looked to have been passed over for about a century, maybe more. England tried to keep fairly regular with the renewal spells, not wanting to chance precious information getting lost.

However, he did have _many_ books and journals, so England had a habit of choosing ones he deemed important enough to keep. This one had not made the list, but, luckily, it had not fallen apart at the seams—though it appeared ready to do so at any given moment.

The symbol was written in the top right corner of the right page, the sweeps clumsy. He remembered nothing of drawing the symbol, nor of writing this entry. One might think living so long allowed a long memory, as well, but a nation’s memory sometimes seemed even more fallible than a human’s.

The ink was smudged in several places, making the cramped handwriting harder to read. The words were in Middle English, making the endeavor all the harder. While England could read Old- and Middle English, he wasn’t fluent nowadays.

It was like when he had needed to learn a new language, translating words in his head and making the conversation stretch out longer than it would be otherwise.

“The Order of the Hunt,” England murmured. “Now, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I don’t like any of this,” Scotland grumbled, heading to get himself some stew. “Sound, sight, smell, anything.”

He didn’t bother asking what the Order of the Hunt was. Either because he already read the passage, or he knew that England would read the passage aloud anyway—possibly both.

“‘The vampire had light brown eyes, gold when candlelight reflected off of them. Never had I seen eyes so warm in color and cold in soul, or whatever rest underneath his flesh and bone. With the shape of his pupils and how he held himself, he resembled a cat, made man. His front teeth were sharp as well, not just the canines—”

“Mind skipping a bit?” Scotland got a beer from the refrigerator and brought it to the table with his food. “You never did learn how to be succinct.”

After a half-hearted glare at his brother, England lowered his eyes back to the text and skipped over the description. He _could_ be fairly long-winded from time to time, but like hell he was going to say as much to Scotland.

“This vampire seemed rather fond of speaking of this so-called Order. Appears he sensed I wasn’t necessarily human and was intrigued.” Arthur felt a shiver slither down his spine.

He recalled crossing paths with vampires in the past, most he evaded, the rest he attacked with magic before escaping. He didn’t recall this conversation.

This didn’t seem to be simple forgetfulness. Reading this and seeing the symbol, at least, would have jogged even the barest wisps of memory.

“You look pale.” Scotland tsked and went to the pantry. “What is it now?”

 _Alfred wasn’t the first vampire to attack me_ , he thought as he kept reading. “How much of this did you read?”

“Bits and pieces.” Scotland brought back one of the brownies England had gotten for America. “Eat up. Your handwriting leaves much to be desired.”

Mouth twitching, England said nothing and took a small bite of the brownie.

“I think the attack had something to do with Alfred,” he finally said after swallowing.

The corner of Scotland’s mouth twitched. He was still angry, it was obvious, but there was no getting around the fact that he was fond of the boy. The two would go out drinking with Denmark and Prussia once in a while, and there was that joke concerning their cities Boring and Dull.

“Think he kidnapped and tortured the wrong vampire?” asked Scotland, looking at the journals. He paled, his freckles standing out even more. Reading Scotland was much easier than he liked to admit. “Other members of this Hunt live near here and were contacted by the ones at his place?”

“Possibly….” England took another bite of the brownie and set it onto the plate his biscuits had been on. “I suspect it might actually—”

The doorbell rang, its tone echoing through the manor, and Scotland set his fork down and got up.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

“Alfred, I am going to murder you,” England murmured as he poked at a hunk of potato in his stew. He wasn’t angry at America biting him, necessarily. He wasn’t even angry at him for keeping his vampirism a secret—he couldn’t, really; he would have done the same. He was simply angry at being made to feel useless, in need of a sitter.

“Maybe I should have hit him with my lasers,” mused Flying Mint Bunny as he materialized on the bar. “It’s one of your kids at the door. Buttercup nearly ran his horn through him before realizing last-second it was the other one.”

“The other….”

The door opened, Scotland sounding surprised: “Canada, I thought—”

“I caught an early flight,” came a familiar voice. Usually soft, it sounded odd with an urgent edge that made the hairs on the back of England’s necks stand up straight. “Where’s America? His usual room upstairs? I need to talk to him about something, but he’s not answering his phone.”

America should have his mobile. England had plugged it in to charge in his room, though he’d turned it on silent. It must have been Canada making it vibrate like crazy.

“He’s not—”

“I’m sorry for my rudeness, but what are you doing here? What happened to your arm?” He sounded closer, and the door closed. “Has something happened? You, Wales, and Northern Ireland usually stay at your homes when there’s a meeting.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, England called, “Canada, in here.”

Flying Mint Bunny faded away, likely to go outside and give them all room—that or reappear upstairs and spy from there. It was hard to tell with him.

Setting his suitcase and carry-on by the sofa, Canada came around to the kitchen, his polar bear trailing behind him and Scotland pulling up the rear.

Canada wore his usual crimson hoodie with jeans and trainers, and his hair looked frizzy, like he hadn’t taken care of it in the past day or so.

“America’s not here right now,” England said when Canada opened his mouth. “What did you wish to speak with him about?”

“Are you alright?” The urgency had been swept from Canada’s voice. Yet, there was a slight wavering that had remained, showing that he still felt it; he simply felt the need to place someone else before his own wants, as per usual. The boy didn’t even realize he did it anymore; it was a reflex.

“I’m grand.” Just as Canada could not help putting others before himself, England could not help the sarcasm dripping off his words. “Please, what is it you need? It must be bloody important if—”

“I think Al’s a vampire.”

The words were whip-quick, as though he’d needed to force them out to avoid sucking them in and never letting them be heard. Canada’s face when bright red, and Scotland’s eyes went wide for a moment before his hands went to his face and he stomped over to the couch.

Kumajiro rolled onto his back and fell asleep, and Canada stood still, waiting for a response. By the shine in his eyes, he hoped for and feared ridicule—wanted to be told it was preposterous while also wanting someone to believe him.

As England opened his mouth, Scotland shouted from the sofa, “Congratulations! You managed to raise a smart one!”


	7. Tarot Cards

Being around so many humans made America realize just how hungry he was. Bagged blood wasn’t filling, and now he had steaks being dangled in front of him. Shivers and sparks barreled within him, his Hunger fighting with his will.

He couldn’t think them only as prey, as food. They were _people_. They had lives, dreams, pasts, virtues, loves.

They also had sins, lies, hates, schemes.

They weren’t saints, and even saints had pasts. To elevate them was selfish. As a nation, whose existence rested on the heels of humanity, he didn’t want to look at their darkness in equal level to their light. It made it easier to claim a hill and call himself a beacon.

The Hunger cooed all this, and when America found himself with his back against a wall in an alley, he was thankful. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed. His fangs were extended, and every second he fought against the hunger was another wave of energy lost. He was still able to fight, but not for much longer.

That damn rabbit’s sleeping dust had done more harm than good.

“Calm down, or I knock you out,” Romania hissed, pupils dilating.

His nose was less than an inch from America’s, and a small group of teenage guys walked by the alley, one whistling at them. His friend smacked him in the back of the head as the others whooped, and America instantly felt heat rise to his face as Romania sighed. He looked ready to tell America to go ahead and go after them.

Instead, he backed up some and asked, “What’s the longest you ever go without feeding?”

Straightening, America was at his full height of a hair under six feet; he had to look down to meet Romania’s eyes. He had to make himself meet his gaze, his mind replaying each murder in slow motion.

“Ten days was the longest, right after I was Turned,” he replied. “Now the longest I’ll go between live feedings is five days, but that’s pushing it.”

“Last time you fed?”

America had to think for a moment. “Two, three days ago?”

“Okay, so you were already getting Hungry when the attack happened.”

Taking four-point breaths to keep calm, America nodded.

“Ever been attacked in a major way since Turning?”

“I got stabbed a couple months after being Turned.” America’s voice turned flat, eyes going down to the concrete.

“Okay, you don’t have to say more.” Romania huffed, color blooming over his otherwise-pale cheeks. He looked embarrassed for having brought up bad memories. “Okay, wait back there, and I’ll lure someone to you. I’ll make sure you don’t take too much.”

Nodding, America pulled his hood forward to keep his face hidden and moved deeper into the alleyway. There was a pile of boxes and crates not far from the back wall, and America used that as a cover, while Romania stayed near the mouth of the alley. He no longer wore his hat, but without anything to cover his face, America wondered if he was actually ambivalent towards people recognizing him, or if there was any truth to the hypnotizing power vampires in stories had.

America had never thought to see if he could compel someone or not, and, honestly, the thought of using such a power made him shiver. Taking someone’s blood was one thing. He couldn’t bring himself to even consider messing with someone’s free will.

It didn’t take long for Romania to convince a guy to follow him towards the crates. By the sound of it, Romania was playing the role of a drug dealer. America smelled cigarette smoke on the human, along with beer and bourbon. It nearly covered his natural scent.

The human didn’t get the chance to fight before America snatched him and sunk his fangs into his neck. The man’s face was pressed into his shoulder, muffling the shout that had managed to escape before he slipped into a barely-conscious state. His arms fell limp at his sides, the side of America’s head hurt from his punch.

“Fast,” said Romania, sounding impressed. “But drunks fall under quicker than a sober person does.”

Drinking the man’s blood was like licking a thin layer of tar-tinged ash on the bottom of a terra cotta bowl. The taste overwhelmed the notes of water drunk from a cast iron container that hadn’t been washed, chili peppers covered in caramel, and a salt-and-flour paste mixed with chocolate liquor and lemon zest. It was an odd, contradictory combination that told America more of the man than he needed to know, reminding him of the human soul beneath his flesh, blood, and bone.

Yet, his Hunger planted its roots in America’s soul and made him know only food.

All of a sudden, America’s head was slammed against the wall, and as he adjusted his glasses, black stars retreating to the edges of his vision, he saw Romania lick the man’s neck wounds so they closed.

Straightening, America clenched his jaw to stop growling, but his shoulders and hands still tremored, blood dripping from his mouth. He got his breathing under control and licked his lips and wiped his chin off on the sleeve of his hoodie. Black clothing was good at hiding blood stains.

“I told you to stop,” Romania hissed as he laid the man down onto the ground so he was sitting against the wall.

“I… didn’t hear you.” America leaned against the wall, the pain already nearly gone. He was practically immune to pain right after a feeding, making him want to find another subject for study.

When he had first gotten his most recent subject, he had starved her and would then inject her with saliva he’d milked from a previous vampire. The vampire had looked as though he had injected it with a narcotic. The vampire had still felt pain, but the pain had been blunted, or clouded. The vampire had looked high, almost.

Even after weeks of performing the experiment, using the same dosage, the vampire had shown no signs of dependence or even rising tolerance. Vampires, then, could not become addicted to the substance, but America drew the line at testing to see whether or not humans could.

America snapped back to the present when Romania snapped his fingers.

“Earth to Alfred. Just because you were the first on the moon, doesn’t mean you get to keep your head in the stars all night. We should probably get back to Arthur’s in about an hour.”

Before America could respond, Romania was on the move, so he sighed and followed.

He liked Romania better when he was constantly joking and coming up with prank ideas. A serious Romania was like seeing a serious Prussia or serious Denmark—not inconceivable, but something that seemed to crawl underneath his skin and settle against his bones, cold and prickly.

America took from three others, bathroom breaks needed in between a couple of them. Romania took from two donors, America wondering if he ever tried to hunt for the vampire that Turned him, or if he just went with it without a fight.

America didn’t want to entertain the possibility that even after killing the vampire that Turned him, Romania stayed a vampire anyway.

The seed of hope was tiny, but if there was something America had kept close to his heart from being raised by England, it was the Brit telling him that even faith small as a mustard seed could move a mountain. He was going to keep hoping, keep faith.

He _would_ Turn back—he had to.

**X X X**

Canada often easily went with the flow, but this was too much.

He had been suspicious about America’s behavior for a while. After the last world meeting, France had asked him to question him, but Canada had kept chickening out, unsure of what to say.

How exactly did one ask, “So are you a blood-sucker or what?”

At first, France had thought America had been making out with one of the workers at the building, but when France went back to the empty room later, the woman was still there, unconscious. She’d been pale, and when France took her to the hospital, she was relatively alright, though needing observation. Unconsciousness was something that needed to be monitored closely.

The woman’s blood pressure had been low, but not dangerously so. After waking, the woman had shown no signs of concussion or any other neurological problems. On the contrary, she had seemed very well-rested—“better than I’ve slept in years,” in her words. She only remembered feeling a sharp prick of pain in her neck before collapsing.

She didn’t even recall meeting with someone, let alone with whom.

Canada had been asked if he saw anyone drug her, and while America was the obvious suspect, Canada couldn’t think of any motive he could have. He had instead lied to the police officer, saying he’d found her after the meeting and had brought her to the hospital immediately. France had been tailing America at the hotel at the time.

Neither France nor Canada had jumped to “vampire” as a potential answer back then. France, having known England for so long, had entertained the idea of blood magic before laughing it off. America had always referred to magic as “woowoo shit” and “juju crap.” Neither had thought he’d get entangled with the supernatural.

Now America _was_ the supernatural, or at least a member of it.

“So what about this Order?” Canada asked once he was done with his first bowl of stew. He hadn’t eaten much since calling America when he was in New Orleans and was famished.

England passed Canada one of America’s journals (he wouldn’t let him look at them while he was eating, saying only “Trust me”). On the page was a black-and-white photograph of a scar that looked like an infinity symbol with a crescent-moon-like line through part of it. Underneath in cramped cursive was _left side of subject’s neck, taken 03/18/15_.

“Thus far, Scotland has only been able to find one mention in my library—”

“And you don’t exactly keep a card catalog down there,” Canada mumbled, glancing up to see his ex-guardian looking at him. “France ranted about how creepy and unorganized it was.”

“Of course he did.” England pinched the bridge of his nose, making a mental note to have a word with his boyfriend sometime about going into the basement without permission. “Anyway, and from what I’ve gathered is that they see themselves as a sort of governing force, though not one recognized by all vampires, as the vast majority of them are loners and therefore unorganized, so I’m sure we can cross out the possibility of there being some vampire nation personification running around.”

“ _Good_.”

Could that even happen? England and Norway saw fairies. Fairies had kingdoms or courts, right? Were there personifications of those kingdoms?

Canada’s head hurt.

“Very. The fact nations can be Turned is cause enough for worry.” England sipped his chamomile tea, which Scotland made for him before going back to the basement. “Now, as I was saying, the Order of the Hunt appears to be some sort of inner circle—I would venture to call it a cult. They revere—possibly worship—an entity, the name of which I do not know. They simply call it ‘Mother.’

“Now, I hold suspicion towards what I will say next, as all my information I have currently comes from a single source: a vampire part of said Order. Matthew, I do not appreciate that look. This was centuries ago, apparently, but I do not recall the conversation. It’s possibly because he later bit me, and the attack erased the memory—”

“Maybe. Do you remember… um”—Canada had trouble saying the rest, and the words ended up tumbling out of his mouth in a rush—“what happened before Al bit you?”

“Not clearly, but….” England shook his head. “It could have been compulsion. Maybe he realized later how much he told me? Or another from the Order realized and made me forget?” He didn’t like the idea of someone messing with his mind. “And then there is the question why they came here. Scotland and I suspect Alfred having drawn them.”

“If they’re really a cult, they probably protect their own.” Canada read some of the experiments detailed on the pages. “If even one of them found out about what Al did to this guy….” He blanched at the account of his brother cutting out pieces of the vampire’s liver and measuring regrowth rates. “They probably wanted revenge, but if it was this long ago, did they not know who he was, or were they waiting for something?”

“I don’t think they were waiting for a specific time,” England responded. “There was nothing special magically about last night, though vampires are unable to harness magic, anyway—well, undead vampires are unable to do so.”

The add-on made Canada think England was speaking of Romania.

“So how’d they just now find out it was America?” asked Canada.

After a moment of thought, England inquired, “You decided to confront America after this video, you said?”

Canada nodded as he turned the page of the journal. Some of these ‘experiments’ sounded more sadistic than scientific. He had even done experiments on himself, such as taking blood from a vampire and drinking it to see if it was possible to live off of that instead of human blood. The vampire blood had rendered America ill, leaving him bedridden for hours.

It wasn’t unusual for nations to test their immortality, sometimes in gruesome ways. Some had been beheaded at one point or another (Russia enough times to leave permanent scars), and Canada had walked off fatal bullet wounds during battle and while hunting down poachers back home.

But there was something much different in reading a detailed account of America cutting out his own heart and tossing it into a lit fireplace before passing out.

Canada set aside the journal before he could taste the stew a second time.

“It was posted a couple days ago by one of America’s vloggers that’s starting to get popular.” Canada went to the fridge to get a bottle of hard cider. “I had a weird feeling after calling America. He was in New Orleans, and I just got some feeling and looked up New Orleans in YouTube. It was one of the first videos to pop up.”

Getting his iPad from the coffee table in the den, England asked, “What’s his name?”

Using the counter to remove the bottle’s cap (and ignoring England’s irritated look), Canada replied, “Joe? John? Look up ‘New Orleans paranormal.’ The thumbnail image is of the sign for Lafayette Cemetery and should be in the first five.”

“Found it,” England said after a while. “Joel Richardson, with friends Noah, Liz, and James. Witch?”

“Skip to the last few minutes,” Canada said, walking around the table to stand behind England. “The ‘witch’ talks about the attack and does a reading with Tarot cards to talk about their ‘attacker’.”

“America?”

“You can only see a dark shape.” Canada sighed and took a long sip of cider. “They try zooming in, but that just makes the image real blurry. It was definitely a person, though. Fast, and I’ve seen Al do acrobatic stuff just like that before. It’s one of his favorite moves when we’re showing off to each other.”

Canada points, and England pauses the video. The dark blob is near-parallel with the ground, gracing over the top of a tall tomb.

“ _Could_ be someone else, but I’m pretty sure it’s him.” Canada took another sip. “Skip to the witch’s reading. You might find it interesting.”

Clicking his tongue, England skipped to where Canada instructed him. On the screen was a girl in her early twenties. She had dark olive skin, and her curly hair shaved on one side and dyed bright blue.

“So Nik,” said James off-camera. “After you went all Xena on us and chased after the thing that attacked Joe and Noah, what happened?”

Nikki toyed with the silver pentagram that was on a black string around her neck. She looked uncomfortable being on camera. “I didn’t have any plan or anything. I just… _reacted_.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure just because you talk to the dead, you don’t actually _want_ to be dead.”

The girl gave the cameraman an unamused look.

“Okay, the docs say Joel and Noah’ll be fine. They just want to watch over them for the night. Do you think this thing was like in one of those fairy tales? Like where the people get spirited away or whatever?”

“I don’t think so.” Nikki shook her head. “Fey make deals, which is why you’re not supposed to say ‘thank you’ or apologize to them—it puts you in their debt. Whatever this was, it just took, no deals involved. I kept a sachet with me. Inside was bits of sandalwood, some frankincense resin, and a couple cloves of garlic. At sight of it, the attacker backed off. So I’m not sure who or what that was.”

“But you think you got something to help figure it out?”

Nikki nodded and held up a dark purple draw-string bag and slid a well-used deck of cards out of it.

The camera angle shifted as Nikki turned, showing she was at a desk pushed up against a wall.

Closing her eyes, Nikki shuffled her cards, England narrowing his eyes at the screen.

“What?” asked Canada, setting his half-empty bottle of cider onto the table.

“You don’t see that?” asked England in return.

“Just her shuffling cards and a bunch of anime figurines on the bookshelf.”

Pointing at the area around the girl, England said, “There’s a shimmer in her aura.”

Whatever England saw, Canada didn’t. He didn’t like that there was this whole world he was closed off to, but, at the same time, this world was already so complicated, maybe not having paranormal leanings was a blessing.

In the video, Nikki laid down seven cards and set the rest of the deck onto the corner of her desk. “The Fool, Six of Swords, Eight of Cups, the Hanged Man, Nine of Swords, the Tower, Eight of Wands.”

A shadow fell over England’s expression as he turned off the video.

“You know what those cards mean?” Canada asked gingerly.

“Different readers offer different interpretations,” England murmured, “especially with different decks providing different symbolism and emphasis.” He blinked and reached for the journal Canada had been looking at earlier. “But, yes, I know the gist of those cards’ meanings. Alistair! Get up here!”

England started to stand, waving of Canada when he tried to help.

“What?!” Scotland demanded from the basement.

Hands shaking, England bellowed back, “We need to prepare. That bloody Order will be back and soon. Probably with more this time.”


	8. More than Hunger

Text after text after text. Missed calls. DMs from Twitter and Tumblr.

Some were from Canada. He knew America was a vampire.

And he wanted to talk about it.

America almost texted back asking if Canada could just set him on fire instead.

Most other texts and missed calls were from Germany. America didn’t even want to open them or check his voice messages. He couldn’t avoid him forever, and he knew that Germany would confront him sooner or later—he had simply hoped for later, after he found out how to stop being a vampire.

“What’s going on?” Romania asked as they got out of the cab.

Slipping his phone into his back pocket, Alfred groaned. He already hadn’t been looking forward to going back into the house with Scotland there and royally pissed at him. Or with England there and still likely weak from the heavy blood loss, and if he wasn’t pissed, he’d be inquisitive and look at America like he was between glass plates under a microscope.

But now Canada was here too and wanted to talk, and on top of that, Germany would try to find time between meetings for them to talk about their breakup.

If ghosting could be considered breaking up.

“Mattie’s here,” America sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “He knows I’m a vampire, apparently, and Artie thinks there’s going to be another attack soon.”

How he could know that for sure, America didn’t know. It was a possibility, sure; he had no clue why so many vampires came out of the woodwork all of a sudden. Random attacks happened, but that many and with the reappearance of that symbol meant something was being planned.

At least the meetings wouldn’t be boring this year at least.

Romania sniffed and looked around. America spotted shimmers out of the corner of his eye and smelled fey—a lot of them. Looked like England was bringing in a garrison.

So long as America was allowed to stay conscious, he didn’t mind. If a stupid flying rabbit packed such a huge punch in a spell’s _side-effect_ , America had to admit that faeries could kick some serious ass.

“Then we better get inside,” murmured Romania. “Looks like the meeting’s going to be late because of you no matter what.”

He hurried to the front door, and America scowled as he followed, having to bite his tongue to stop himself from growling.

“That feral side doesn’t fade,” Romania warned, voice suddenly solemn. “You just learn how to fight it. It’s worse when you date and crap. You get territorial and jealous real easy. Don’t watch it, and you start to lose your humanity, and that’s hard enough as a Nation.”

Lips thin, America stared at his feet. He didn’t know how to respond.

“That made me think England’s theory of how vampires were born might be the right one.” Romania’s tone returned to its usual chipper tone.

“There’s another story for where vampires come from?” America jogged a bit to keep up as they reached the front door.

Romania shrugged. “More than just those two, I’m sure.” He opened the door and fixed his hat as he sauntered into the manor. “Hey! Alfie the Good Vamp of the West is back!”

“The Witch of the West is the wicked one,” called Canada from the kitchen.

Romania shrugged and leapt onto the couch, lying down with his feet propped up on the arm. “Yeah, but I still think that that Glinda bitch was the real wicked one. If she could send Dorothy back the whole time, why make her go through all that crap first?” 

“He has a point,” said America as he closed the door.

America went through the dining room to the kitchen, thinking about what Romania said about his feral side never fading.

  _"It’s worse when you date and crap.”_

If America’s heart sunk any lower, it would fall out of his foot.

He couldn’t speak to Germany if that was true.

If. He knew it was true; he’d just been denying that his very personality was changing beyond the Hunger.

Whenever Germany had tried to force him into a conversation, America found an escape route. Every time he saw him, his body would flash with heat, making him lightheaded. The thoughts _Mine mine mine_ would bubble in the back of his head in growls and hisses that shouldn’t come from any human.

Last time, America had escaped to a closet for solitude, unable to stop the fantasy from playing through—silencing Germany’s protests with kisses, pinning him to a wall and—

“Earth to Al.”

A growl caught in the back of his throat, America met Canada’s steady, scrutinizing gaze as the door to the basement slammed open.

“We already _have_ protection charms put into place,” England argued loudly, already sounding out of breath. “We need to ready offensive spells!”

“Offensive spells will take too much of your energy!” Scotland shouted back. “And how’re we supposed to trust some of those charms will be worth anything!”

America bristled at the vague jab and then frowned at Canada’s smug look.

" _Won’t touch ‘juju crap’ with a ten-foot pole, eh?”_ was what the look said.

“Shut up,” America grumbled. He broke a piece off one of the three cookies left on the stove, licking icing off of his thumb. “So what’s got you thinking there’s gonna be another attack. It hasn’t even been a day!”

Pouring hot water into a red mug, Canada inquired, “Did you go to Lafayette cemetery while in New Orleans?”

At the same time, Scotland said, “Don’t talk like this is just some inconvenience for you. _You’re_ the one that bloody drew them here!” while England exclaimed, “Of all your citizens to take blood from, you chose ones that had befriended a _witch_!”

Grabbing the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ -themed mug from the cabinet, America had to think for a moment. _Oh, the Nikki girl_. “It’s New Orleans. Cemeteries are the best places to find donors, since they just assume they met with a ‘paranormal experience’ or whatever—”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” muttered Canada as he mixed cocoa powder into the hot water.

Ignoring him, America got a bag of cocoa powder from the pantry and continued: “And I wouldn’t say ‘befriended’ so much as ‘tracked.’ She was invited by the main guy for the video. What about her, anyway?”

“They’re _okay_ , by the way,” Canada said as he dropped the spoon into the chrome sink and marched to the large table, nearly spilling cocoa onto his hand.

“They’re always okay….” It was a lie, but he wasn’t going to think about that. Not right now.

Unless America took too much, or if the person was ill, the donors woke up feeling refreshed and filled with energy. He’d followed several donors in the beginning to see how they fared after losing about a pint of blood.

All (that he’d seen) had felt great, and some had even turned out for the better—at least for the while America followed. One human had been an alcoholic when America bit her, but afterwards, she had started attending AA and made plans to get her life in order.

It was odd, but if there was any truth to that creation story Romania said, then it made some sense ( _some_ ). If vampires, like demons, fed on sin, then those sins were drawn out of the humans after being fed from, even if only for a short amount of time. It also fit with the narrative that the original vampires had been born from a priest wanting the power to exorcise any demon.

Part of America wanted to study the phenomenon more, but the other part said that experimenting on humans was _far_ over the line.

England walked up to the bar that separated the kitchen and den, and he watched as America prepared a cup of hot cocoa. “The video was posted online—no, you can’t be seen; at least not to where anyone would recognize you—and at the end, the witch did a card reading to get a ‘feel’ for what you were. What it looked like she did, instead, however, was divine your near future.”

“And what’s that?” America’s chuckle fell flat when he saw the expression on England’s face.

His skin was back to its usual almond shade, and the bags under his bright green eyes were less noticeable than before. His bottom lip was red, like he’d been biting it, something England did when nervous or worried.

“She drew the Fool, Six of Swords, Eight of Cups, the Hanged Man, Nine of Swords, the Tower, Eight of Wands.” England sighed. “You have no idea what any of those cards mean.”

“Not interested,” America replied with a shrug.

“I myself prefer stichomancy,” Romania supplied from the couch. “It seems vaguer to newbies, but I’ve always found it real accurate.”

“Then maybe you can help me go through Artie’s books, if you like using them so much,” said Scotland, dragging the vampire up and towards the doorway past the entertainment system. “I’m serious about the wards! Keep them back for now, and we’ll worry about attacking back later!”

The door slammed shut before England could reply, and Canada sighed at the table.

Propping himself up on one of the two stools at the bar, England said, “The Fool is someone new at a challenge or adventure, such as you with… this.”

America cleaned off the spoon in the sink and used it to mix his hot chocolate.

“The Fool is often depicted as near a cliff, juggling, or both. He’s in danger of falling while distracted. The Six of Swords speaks of running away from one’s problems, often something that requires more immediate action. The Eight of Cups is similar, though moving on while there is a mess left in your wake. The Hanged Man often depicts the same man in the Fool card, but older, and shown what happens when you don’t watch where you’re stepping. Thank you.”

England toyed with the metal star at the end of the mesh holding tea leaves. The water started turning amber, and muffled shouting came from downstairs as Canada’s cellphone vibrated on the table.

After a long sign, England continued: “The Nine of Swords depicts someone waking, likely from a nightmare. This running is catching up to you, and when it does, it’ll be harsh and painful. The Tower, a very dramatic card and worse than Death and the Devil in my honest opinion, laminates this point. When the truth catches up, it’ll be sudden and jarring. The Eight of Wands makes this even clearer: It’s coming, and there’s no stopping it. Everything’s been set into motion; all we can do is wait and prepare.”

A chill slipped down America’s spine, and the cocoa went tasteless in his mouth.

“More bad news,” Canada said, looking at his iPhone. “Al, he’s texting _me_ now. Pretty sure his patience wore out a long time ago. _Call him_.”

“Who are you talking about?” England demanded as America set down his mug and went over to his twin, who held out his phone for him.

The text was from Germany and read, **I apologize for sending this to you, Matthew, but Alfred is not responding. Please give him this message:** “ **I’m taking an earlier flight and will be in London by 6 in the morning. We need to talk, and you are not getting out of it this time. I have waited long enough for answers, which I am more than deserving of receiving.” Thank you, Matthew, and I apologize again for asking you to be my messenger.**

Groaning, America rubbed his eyes, making his glasses go askew. This was just getting better and better!

“Will you two tell me what’s going on?” England demanded. “The meeting is in less than two days, and everyone will be arriving tomorrow—”

“Germany will be here about six in the morning,” Canada supplied, now looking at his brother with sympathy. He hadn’t wanted to badger him with questions about his relationship, but he now seemed to at least know why America had chosen to break things off with Germany.

“Germany—?”

“We dated,” America blurted, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “We started dating in Oh-five, and I broke up with him a couple years ago. Pretty sure you can figure out why.”

Crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair, Canada said, “‘Broke up with’ suggests you two actually talked. You just avoided him. I’m surprised Gil hasn’t tried to strangle you yet.”

“Lud told him he was the one that broke up with me,” America sighed, shoulders slumping. “So Gil wouldn’t confront me.”

“ _You were dating Germany_?!” England finally exploded, and from downstairs came twin exclamations of “ _What_?!”

Looking up, America cried, “You act like that’s more shocking than the fact I’m a fucking parasite!”

“It _is_ more shocking than the fact you’re ‘a fucking parasite’!” England responded, mimicking his accent.

“If another attack’s coming,” said Canada, “then you pretty much _have_ to explain why you’ve been avoiding him all this time.” He took a sip of hot cocoa. “By the way, France suspects. He found that woman you bit at the last world meeting and told me about it. Honestly I’m surprised he told me and not you.” He looked up at England.

“He probably worried how I might react to the situation,” he murmured, taking a testing sip of his tea. He glanced at America. “It’s like you _wanted_ to get caught.”

“Gee, thanks, Freud,” America muttered, slinking back over to the kitchen counter to retrieve his hot cocoa.

England rolled his eyes. He tapped at the bar’s surface, eyes turning distant. “I don’t particularly like the idea of the others getting dragged into this as well, which is why I wanted to use offensive magic, not just set up more wards. However, it’s already ten, so Germany will be here in about eight hours, and France is due to arrive no later than nine.” 

“And then Italy with Romano and then Japan, right?” asked America.

England nodded. “Italy and Romano should be here about noon, and then Japan should land by eight. At least we can narrow the time frame.”

“The burn-in-sun thing is real,” Canada deadpanned. “Of course it is. At least that helps us out. What about holy water? Crucifixes?”

“In my experiences, those work quite well, though not something to rely on completely,” answered England.

At the same time, America said, “Only if they were Christian before being Turned, and the older they are, the less they work.” He frowned at the looks the other two gave him. “Pretty sure both of you read at least part of those journals”—he motioned at the leather-bound binders on the table—“even if I really wish y’all didn’t. And they only burn in sunlight if they’re real young. After a half-century or so, they just get rashes or really sluggish. Vampires have to sleep, or whatever. Anywhere from four to six hours. Depends on how much blood they’ve been drinking.”

Thankfully, neither asked for details on how America figured this out.

Instead, Canada asked, “Killing them?”

“Fire’s best bet,” muttered England, though his tone made him sound like he was nervous as to what America’s response would be.

After drinking half his hot cocoa, America nodded as he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie. “Beheading works for a while, but if the head and body are close together, they reattach. Best to burn them. But, interestingly enough, tear out the heart and burn it—or otherwise destroy the heart—and they die for good, even if you leave the body for the buzzards.”

Dismemberment and dissolving the majority of the body in lye worked too, but America didn’t need to go into _that_ much detail.

“What do you mean ‘otherwise destroy the heart’?” England questioned, sounding like he could not bear being left without his curiosity sated.

 _Curiosity killed the cat_. “Like dissecting it…, or putting it in something like formaldehyde….” _Or drying it out and crushing it like powder into the vampire’s wide-open mouth as you watch it die._

No need to add in that last part. Subject 54 hadn’t been the only vampire with the weird symbol branded on its neck. America could recall at least one other, but it had been some time ago, so the journal describing it was back home. He was fairly sure it had been a male vampire, but he couldn’t recall for certain. All he remembered was that the vampire had _really_ pissed him off.

If there was some sort of group that vampire and Subject 54 had been part of, then it made sense they’d want to come after America.

What he couldn’t think of was why here? Why now?


	9. Confession

Romania and Scotland had first shift for guard duty. They weren’t part of the G7 meeting, so they had already agreed to keep watch during nights and sleep during the day. America would join in the early hours of the morning, since he didn’t need much sleep.

Wales had been contacted to research the Order of the Hunt, but the others assured he was not needed to help with guarding or fighting.

The next morning arrived with no vampires coming near England’s manor.

Scotland had suggested the first attack had been to see how strong they were, so there had likely been one or two other vampires crouched nearby but out of sight, so as to give word back to the Order.

If that was the case, there were more people at the manor now, so the Order would need to rearrange their plans. It was uncertain if they would know about the meeting or not, so it was possible that they would keep back longer after seeing more nations arrive.

Waiting the worst part of any battle.

It felt like by the time America finally fell sleep, he was jarred awake again. Romania shook his shoulder, and he swallowed a groan and grabbed Texas from the nightstand. He had been hearing whispers, hisses, and growls while atop that wire between dream and wakefulness—memories of past subjects, haunting him.

People didn’t need souls to haunt the living. Memories did enough of that on their own.

 _They weren’t people_ , thought America, yawning as he stood. _Not anymore._

Still, he recalled his latest subject, who had spoken Pennsylvania Dutch. How many of the others had once been his citizens?

He halted the thoughts and listened as Romania told him that there had been movement in the forest behind the house. Scotland had followed, holding the sachet America had made for England in one hand and an ax in his other. He’d spotted a vampire but had been unable to reach it before the beast ran off, using a zig-zag pattern the further it got.

Some fey had chased after it, but there was no word from them so far.

Scotland was getting some sleep now, and Romania would get a couple hours of shut-eye before joining America. It’d been quiet for a while, so things should be fine.

While the mansion was large, it wasn’t large enough for everyone to have their own room, so Scotland was sleeping on a cot in England’s room, and Romania was taking America’s bed while he was up.

Romania lifted one of the chains attached to the headboard and made a BDSM joke; America only flipped him off as he grabbed his cellphone.

The mansion was dark, but his eyes had shifted, vertical pupils expanding to let in what light was available. He smelled fey around the house, the trails old. The flying rabbit’s trail was most recent.

Sleep was already nudging him, humming temptations in his ear.

Not wanting to make any more noise than usual, America grabbed the tin of coffee grounds and put a large pinch between his lower lip and teeth, like tobacco. It wasn’t pleasant, but it would keep him awake.

Everything was quiet, and America was tempted to check his phone, but he didn’t want to see if Germany had tried getting in touch with him again.

Germany was reserved and tried to offer others space, since he knew that space for peace and quiet was what made him feel better and recharge. Yet, he didn’t always know how to look outside himself and read how others felt, so after a certain amount of time, he would start growing impatient. He didn’t like showing his impatience, but it usually burst out of him in spurts.

If their relationship had been made public, people would have thought Germany to be the mature one, having to reign in the man-child he happened to find adorable enough to love—the classic sitcom couple, but with two guys.

In reality, they were both goof-balls; America simply showed off that part of his personality more outwardly than Germany did.

They first bonded when Germany had snuck a stray puppy into a world meeting. He’d found the poor thing shivering behind a dumpster and nearly ended up late taking the puppy and trying to wash her in the restroom.

America had arrived just after Germany, watching him try to hide the little mutt in his coat. The building’s central heat had shut down, so no one had questioned why he insisted on keeping it on. However, when the puppy had escaped and chased after Finland’s dog, America had taken blame, saying he’d been unable to leave her out in the cold. No one else noticed Germany’s face flushing to red during the ordeal.

Prussia had known about the puppy the entire time and approved of the relationship from the start. He’d even once said that he thought America could make Germany more outgoing and learn to let go. In contrast, Canada had said he thought Germany could make America learn to take responsibility and be more serious.

Neither had ever thought about being a catalyst for change towards the other; they complimented each other as they were.

It was almost four. Germany would have his cellphone off as he got ready to board his plane.

Inhaling deeply, America went outside through the back door. The grass was damp, the nation’s shoes sinking into the soil. He could smell the fey. Nearby was the scent of silver shavings mixed with barley and oats, same as his unicorn back home.

England had a pet unicorn, too. Buttercup? Yeah, that sounded about right.

America heard a snort and tinkling, like tiny bells. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shimmer that resembled sparklers. Buttercup was apparently pretty angry. Hopefully the tinkling bells was the sound of another faery telling the unicorn not to impale him.

Just because he couldn’t die, didn’t mean shit like that didn’t hurt.

After a half-hour, America spat out the coffee grounds into the bushes. The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, but as he watched the sun rise, he felt nothing but apprehension.

Romania awoke and joined him at a quarter to six. He searched the surrounding forest, his senses sharper than America’s after centuries of honing.

Time felt both stretched and constricted at the same time when a taxi pulled up. America only stared, standing in the shadows of a large oleander bush planted on the side of the manor.

“Going to have to talk sooner or later.”

America jumped, turning to see that Romania had managed to sneak up on him, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Doesn’t mean I’m ready _now_.” America exhaled in a huff. “Sense anything?”

Romania shook his head, smirk melting into a tight-lipped frown. “But we’ll have to wait for Scotland or England to wake up to figure out what those fairies saw, if they’re back.”

“You can’t see them?” In the distance was the sound of a car door slamming shut.

Germany would be at the front door in less than a minute.

Shaking his head, Romania’s eyes darted towards the ground. “Used to see ghosts. I can _sorta_ see them now, but I have to concentrate. I’ve never been able to see the fey. I can just see their auras and smell them.”

America hummed, watching his ex-boyfriend hand the driver some notes. “Same.”

“You saw ghosts, too?”

“Australia still does.” America shrugged. “Haunted hotels and stuff are popular at our homes, so I used to chalk it up to that.”

“Makes sense.”

Romania didn’t add onto that thought. Feelings were diced and mixed when it came to nations getting their memories, personalities, and abilities from their people. It was something they didn’t like thinking too hard about when they could help it.

As a colony, America had sat on England’s knee and listened to the story of the personification of Eden eating from the Tree of Life, while Adam and Eve had eaten from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Due to this, the personifications had gotten immortality, while humans had gotten free will.

“Head inside and talk to him before the others start waking up,” Romania suggested. “I’ll keep watch outside.”

Drawing in a deep breath, America nodded and headed around towards the front door before he could talk himself out of it.

Germany was halfway down the walk when America stopped at the corner. He suddenly realized that he could see in ways he usually could not see, not before he Turned. The azaleas were bright pink, almost blaring against the deep green of the leaves. The sky was so many shades, spread like watercolor dripped by a practiced hand.

America’s eyes were still like a predator’s. Why hadn’t Romania said anything?

As though reading his mind, Romania came up behind him and whispered, “At least you won’t be tempted to pussy-foot around the bush. Speaking of…”

He kicked America square in the back, forcing him to stumble forward and nearly fall on his face.

Germany stopped and dropped his carry-on from shock, and America slowly stood up straight, glancing at his watch.

“Stroke of six,” he said, voice betraying his nervousness. He stopped a little more than a foot away, trying but failing to smile. “Hey, darlin’. How was your flight?”

“Alfred….” Germany let go of his suitcase and turned to face his ex.

His sunlight-colored hair fell over his forehead and ears. His ice-blue eyes were dulled by the dark circles stamped around them, making him look like he hadn’t slept in days. He must have thought and paced and made pros and cons lists for nights on end until he finally decided to start calling and texting.

Now he stared, thin, cracked lips parted. The fear in his eyes was smothered by confusion, like he had no clue what he was looking at or that what he was looking at was real. The flight might have only been two hours, but it might as well have been two _days_.

Accidentally cutting his tongue as he ran it over his teeth, America forced himself to smile wide to show his fangs. His cheeks strained at the effort, as though his face couldn’t remember how to smile.

He smelled fey around him and the rust-and-salt smell of Romania’s anticipation. The worst part about this was knowing he had an audience.

Until Germany took a step back, skin paling, face unsure and apprehensive. He was too tired, too shocked, too confused to hide his emotions.

Smile wiped away and eyes stinging, America stepped forward, stopping when Germany took another step back.

“Lud…. Please, listen.”

One, long beat. Two. Three.

America felt like he was breathing around his heart, its quivering echo falling through the hollow of his chest.

Finally, Germany spoke: “What did you _do_ to yourself?”

His voice was even, controlled. Only a knowing ear would catch the breathy tone and wavering cadence. Only a knowing ear would hear that it had been stolen from his thoughts, not meant to be heard.

Tears jerked free, America managed, “I _didn’t_ do this to myself. I’m trying to _fix_ this.”

“And just what is ‘this’?” Germany demanded. He looked wild, and he shook, restraint a heated rubber band ready to give.

The words stuck halfway up America’s throat, and he coughed them up: “I’m a vampire.”


	10. Paper Against a Bullet

It felt like a blink, and Germany was in America’s room, pacing from one end to the other. The infuriating man— _vampire_ , Germany forced his mind to amend—sat at the half-open window. His bomber jacket was draped over the back of the chair, and while he stared out the window, Germany could tell that his attention was on him.

A vampire.

This wasn’t real, couldn’t be real.

America’s eyes were now the bright blue Germany had always known, pupils dilated but round. Normal. _Human_.

But the image of vertical, cat-like pupils ringed with red was branded into the back of Germany’s eyes.

Same as those elongated, sharp canine teeth.

A shiver skittered down Germany’s spine, tipping him to where he stumbled as he paced.

“Lud—”

“ _I’m fine_.” Germany’s words were whip-quick and twice as painful as the kicked-puppy look on America’s face indicated.

It made Germany want to go to him, hold him, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t, not just because of the… news. America hadn’t spoken to him in two years. He’d evaded every chance of conversation. He’d refused to return any calls or texts. He’d avoided Germany completely whenever plausible to do so without raising suspicion from anyone else.

Maybe if they hadn’t agreed to keep their relationship a secret, others _would_ have noticed.

Prussia had, and Germany had ended up lying to him, something he hadn’t done since he was a child.

No, everything was now in America’s hands, and he had already done one hell of a job with beginning his play.

Bitter? Germany? Of course not.

He just had an ex-boyfriend who’d snubbed him for two years and suddenly turned out to be a creature that wasn’t supposed to exist!

But bitter? No, never. Germany was above that.

He’d always been, always had to be. He had to be calm, cool, collected. He had to be strong and stoic, organized and responsible. He was young, but he carried so much weight, so much history, so much responsibility. He’d played midwife and murderer, God and Devil.

Many, if not all, of the nations had done so at one point or another.

Germany hated it when he allowed himself enough time to think about it, which was why he needed to stay busy. Why he needed to keep carrying this mountain fate dropped on top of him, even when sometimes all he wanted to do was lie down and let it suffocate him once and for all.

That was a reason he and America had gotten along so well. America had told him how sometimes he wished he could just wake up one day and be human. He’d give up his super strength, his houses, everything. He’d watch families and wish he’d had real parents, rather than… being whatever it was they were.

They wished for the same thing but had found different ways to cope when given the time to think about such a desire. Germany worked out, found work, or played with his dogs. Sometimes he would hang out with Italy or Japan, but only if they reached out first—Germany didn’t like the vulnerable feeling of being the first to reach out.

America would escape into fantasy, use photography to capture, or find experiments—even something as idiotic as figuring out which flavor of Doritos burned hotter.

“I should have told you. Sooner.”

Germany froze in the center of the room and stared at the painting on the wall above the bed’s headboard and the nightstand. It was a watercolor landscape of some meadow, blobs supposed to be flowers but were too blurred to be identified. The part that really drew the eye was the sky—very end of a sunset or very start of a sunrise was left to speculation.

Germany studied the painting, as though he needed to write up a report critiquing it.

“I was hoping that I’d find a cure or something, and—”

“And what?” Germany blurted, hands curled into fists as he continued to stare at the painting. “Think that after _years_ of saying nothing, I’d magically want to pick things up where they were left off, as though nothing had happened?”

Silence for a few beats, then: “Okay, not my brightest plan….”

Germany almost laughed.

The words, the tone—it was so America, so Alfred.

Germany smelled soap before catching the translucent reflection of America in the glass of the frame.

He could recall hot water pouring over them, the feel of icy tile on his back, the pain when both slipped and crashed through the curtain to the bathroom floor.

He remembered attempting to find a semi-comfortable reading position in bed before suddenly feeling damp hair brush over his shoulders as America’s lips left a trail like butterfly wings dancing over his neck and jaw.

He remembered lifting America against a wall after the two snuck away somewhere right after a G-20 meeting ended.

Right now, America stood at arm’s length. He made no move to come closer, touch him, or embrace him.

He wanted to give Germany space. He didn’t want to push his boundaries. He knew that he had no right to touch him.

Germany’s mind warred. He felt those butterfly kisses all over again. He felt those teasing fingers trailing up his inner thigh, stopping, circling, running back down as his mouth moved lower and lower. He tasted Coke and boiled peanuts on his breath as his lips tingled from the caress of a ghost. He smelled soap and coffee.

He wanted him but didn’t want to want him.

But keeping distance mentally hurt when he was so close.

“I thought—”

“You _didn’t_ think,” Germany growled. “You doubted. Me.” _Us_.

He hated sounding this sentimental, this vulnerable. _Damn_ America for making him feel like this.

France and Prussia had both called him dense when it came to romance. They weren’t entirely incorrect, but mostly Germany just hadn’t _wanted_ to understand or participate in that sort of companionship. He didn’t like the idea of giving a person all the ways to hurt him.

Trust was such a flimsy shield. It was paper against a bullet.

Germany frowned at America’s reflection in the glass. There was an easy, devil-may-care smile on his face, but even by the reflection, Germany could tell it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I wish I could tell you I thought of you the whole time,” America murmured, crestfallen. His voice was the sound of a soul being held by the hands of a demon, praying for one last chance. “But I was just… so _obsessed_ ….”

The word was spat out to keep tears from bleeding into it.

The doorbell rang downstairs, and Germany caught footsteps in the hallway outside the bedroom. Every muscle in his body tensed, and he curled his hands into fists. Someone had been eavesdropping on them. He had known insisting on coming early would arouse suspicion, and he had prepared himself for England to wonder why he might wish to speak to America alone when they usually spoke fewer than five consecutive sentences to one-another in front of the others.

But this was a breach of privacy, and Germany was livid that England, the self-professed gentleman, would stoop so low.

“Romania.”

Muscles easing due to shock, Germany turned. A questioning look crossed his face, and America’s eyes widened slightly, possibly shocked that Germany was meeting his eyes now, rather than looking at him via his reflection.

“That was Romania outside the door, I’m pretty sure,” America informed.

From downstairs came France’s unmistakable voice: “ _Angleterre_! What is going on out there?”

Germany hadn’t noticed anything outside. Had he been so single-minded that he’d missed something?

“Yeah…”

Germany tried to meet America’s gaze directly, but he looked at the bed.

“There’s more.”

“Does any of it explain why there are chains on the bed?” Germany crossed his arms.

“Well, _definitely_ not what you’re thinking.”

“I would say not, as they do not meet safety requirements.”

He and America had… explored. Not even Prussia knew. Germany wouldn’t hear the end of it if he had. He and America had only used silk ropes, though, since they allowed some movement and didn’t hold the risk of cutting off circulation. Germany had insisted on reading a large amount of literature on the subject before trying anything, to make sure they were safe. Just because they were immortal, didn’t mean they needed to take unnecessary risks.

“I’ll say,” America mumbled, rubbing one of his wrists as he stared at the bed.

Germany’s heart skipped a beat. Had he been restrained? Why? What was Romania doing here? What was going on outside that he had missed? What more was there?

“Darlin’—”

“ _Don’t_.” Germany tensed again, and his eyes narrowed.

“ _What_?!” France shouted downstairs.

America’s eyes were shining, and he didn’t blink. “Okay. Well, um, there was an attack last night. By a group of vampires.”

Germany waited for the _and_.

“Wait!” That was England’s voice.

“And…”— _There it is_ —“It _might_ be my fault.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway and two sets of footsteps stormed up the stairs. The door flew open, and France stepped into the room. His mouth was set into a frown, and his narrowed eyes found America. Canada and Romania then reached the doorway, the former offering an apologetic shrug.

Germany glared at Romania to let him know he knew he was eavesdropping, and he jumped and smiled awkwardly.

“ _What did you do_?!” France stormed towards America, and on impulse, Germany stepped so he ended up between them. France then took a half-step back, noticing he was there for the first time. “What are you doing here?”

“We tried to stop him,” said Canada.

At the same time, America shouted, “ _England_!”

“I told him to wait!” England shouted back as Scotland called up, “Don’t blame him when you’re the one that knocked on the Devil’s door!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know—?!” America groaned, and Germany’s mind raced.

He glanced back to see America comb his hair back from his face, looking irritated and troubled. It was the look he got when he felt like something was his fault but didn’t know how to fix it. Like Germany, he didn’t like complicated problems. He preferred straight answers, but the world refused to operate in such a way.

“It’s not _totally_ his fault,” Romania offered, standing in the doorway as Canada entered the room.

“Thank you,” America replied sarcastically.

Romania flashed him a thumbs-up in response.

“Francis, calm down,” Canada said as England reached the door, looking much better than he had last night. “Arthur’s fine now.”

What had happened to England? Germany glanced back at America again, spotting guilt flashing over his eyes.

France still glared at America. “And that girl?”

What girl?

“She’s fine.” America’s voice was practically a growl, and Germany felt a shiver creep up his spine. “They’re always fine.”

“And how would you know?” France challenged, Canada grabbing him by the shoulders to hold him back. “You leave them behind like trash.”

A low grumbled from the back of America’s throat. He sounded more animal than human, and Romania took a ready stance, like he was ready to jump in in case anything happened. He said something to England, and the way the Brit balked told Germany Romania suggested that he stay back and protect himself.

“I’ve followed many—”

“But not all,” France interrupted America, bright blue eyes narrowed. “And exactly what could you have done that would make those monsters come here the way they did?”

“What is he talking about?” Germany whispered to America.

As if a spell had been cast, America eased at the sound of his voice, and Romania, England, and Canada all started to look relieved.

France, having forgotten he was here, asked again, “What are you even doing here?”

“Alfred and I _were_ having a private conversation before you barged into the room,” Germany responded in an even tone.

“In France’s defense,” said Romania, “one of you probably should have locked the door.”

Germany shot him another glare, and he looked at the floor.

“A private conversation?” France’s stance eased, and Canada let go of his shoulders. “And what was this about?”

His gaze stayed on Germany, the look reminding him of Switzerland when Liechtenstein went on dates.

 _How does he turn from wanting to attack him to wanting to act like an overprotective parent so quickly?_ Germany wondered.

“Don’t worry,” said Romania. “It wasn’t all that juicy.”

“ _Shut up_!” France, Germany, and America chorused in their native tongues.

Romania shrank back, and Scotland called from downstairs, telling Romania to help him with the research.

“Coming!” Romania called back, already leaving. “God, tough room.”


	11. Hunger and Bloodlust

England and Canada had finally convinced France to leave the room, allowing America and Germany to be alone once more.

America still wasn’t sure whether this was better or worse than five minutes ago.

He still smelled France’s fury; it clung to the walls like cigarette smoke. The scent was pomegranate wine, earthy and sweet and sharp. It soaked into the smell of bread that with burnt crust but was still white and soft in the middle, baked with honey butter that had settled with the pomegranate wine on America’s tongue.

Stronger had been Germany’s anger that still filled the room. The man was always doing what he could to hide his emotions behind a stony, stoic mask, but he couldn’t hide that smell.

It was smoldering pine and frankincense; America could almost hear the crackling of flames. It smelled like the burning wood and resin sat atop freshly-turned earth mixed with hops and well-aged brandy.

Scotland’s anger had been organic, something that grew and withered, its life and death wholly dependent on his will to take the time to water it.

France’s anger had been a book, something he could reach for easily when he wanted. He could sink easily into it’s story but then shut it with the flick of the wrist.

Germany’s anger had been hot and wild, something he had to fight against to keep from letting everything bow to its vicious path.

It still hung in the air like smoke with no air movement to clear it up. America fell to sit on the bed, dizzy. He wasn’t hungry—much—right now, but so much emotionally-charged energy surrounding him, was like watching a waiter pass by with the most delectable-looking steak. America might not be hungry, but he was faced with the reminder that there was food within reach, if he was willing to take it.

Moving to look out the window, Germany asked in a low voice, “What did he mean about making ‘monsters’ come here?”

“That’s your first question?” America fell back onto the bed, hair bushing the wall and the chains shifting.

As though sensing America’s hypersensitivity, Germany opened the window all the way, letting in cool, rain-kissed air.

“It sounds like the most imminent issue,” Germany said simply.

After a long inhale and longer exhale, America replied, “Apparently they’re from some kind of vampire cult. Some came here last night and attacked me and England. I got hurt pretty bad, and…” America stared at the ceiling, feeling Germany looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “I bit England. That’s why France is so pissed, and Scotland’s pretty pissed still, too.”

Germany was quiet for a few, long beats. “Why did they attack?”

“Dunno.” America blinked hard as his eyes started to burn. “Scotland and England think I pissed them off.”

“You really are good at that sort of thing,” Germany muttered under his breath. “How exactly could you have made a ‘vampire cult’ angry?”

America remained quiet. He could hear the others downstairs. He caught blurbs of England and Canada catching France up on what was going on.

“Alfred…?”

The words flung from America’s mouth like a rock from a slingshot: “They’re not human.”

The mattress shifted, and America found himself in Germany’s lap, head leaning against his broad chest, arms around him—like how they used to sit for hours. Sometimes Germany would read, America complaining he turned the pages too quickly. Sometimes they would watch a movie, one of them usually asking questions about the plot. Sometimes they would talk about everything and nothing. Sometimes they would simply be, no words or thoughts or expectations.

The smoky scent was slowly evaporating. Left behind was a stronger hoppy note, stirred into lemon water filtered through soil—much of his scent was earthy and comforting. It mingled with the smell of various berries in that precarious time between sweetness and rot, nearly overpowering the notes of a forest right after a fierce storm.

“I shouldn’t feel bad about them.” America’s voice was a low monotone.

Germany’s voice wavered. “You don’t have to talk—”

“They’ll show you the journals anyway.”

“Journals.”

“I kept notes. While studying.” America blinked hard, eyes burning again.

The embrace, which once sent sparks skittering just below the first layer of his skin, felt like he was being pinned down. He dared not move, his actions with the subjects mingling through his mind like people elbowing their way through a dense crowd in a party they had no business attending. The thoughts mixed with memories of those hikers.

America’s voice turned gravelly from unshed tears and a growl waiting at the back of his throat. “I needed to know how to Turn back. I… captured and studied vampires to learn more. Two that I remember were part of the cult. I remember the marks on their necks. All of them have the mark, I guess. And… I wasn’t exactly caring with them.”

Germany stayed silent for a while. “They weren’t human… as you said.”

“They looked human,” America whispered. “But I never paused, never questioned. Justified. Everything was justified.”

Only in telling someone else—someone he had and still loved—did America see the cruelty in his actions towards the subjects. Yet…, all his guilt resulted from not feeling guilty. He _should_ feel guilty, plucking out eyeballs and cutting up livers and tearing off fingernails.

But he didn’t.

He knew he should. He felt guilty for not feeling guilty.

At least when it came to the vampires.

With those hikers and campers, the guilt was overpowering. He’d killed humans before, but it was usually from afar, space and bullets keeping them apart.

Drinking those people dry felt more personal, more intrusive— _more_. He could still smell them, still taste them.

“I never told them,” America whispered, listening, smelling. No one was in the hall that he could tell. “About… about the people.”

Already catching onto what he was saying, Germany interjected, “Alfred, you don’t need to say—”

“I want to.” America blinked hard again, a few tears finally escaping. “I need to.”

He began the story, and Germany held him to his body as he listened:

*** * ***

It hurt. This was beyond any usual hunger pains. This was something _alive_ , writhing and sneering somewhere within America’s soul—if he even had one anymore.

If he ever had one to begin with.

America clawed himself out from underneath dirt and mud. The ground was still soft from rain. It was dark. Finally. America had been wandering through the Ozarks when his skin started to blister, rashes appearing on his face, neck, and hands.

It had been the sun. It _burned_.

He had buried himself, only able to keep hidden like a corpse until night fell and the hunger wouldn’t let him lie still any longer.

Growling, America wiped dirt from his eyes and shook it from his hair. He spat and sniffed the air.

Humans were nearby.

He smelled them first, then heard them.

Three people laughed in harmony. A fourth grumbled something under their breath.

The hunger writhed, and America growled.

He was losing… losing… he lost.

He wished he had blacked out. Like in those movies where the werewolf saw the full moon, and the screen went black, time lapsing until the man woke up again, covered in his victim’s blood and wondering, _Oh God,_ _what have I done?_

America wasn’t given the grace of asking that question. Even as he lost the ability to control his own body and will, he saw, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted everything, each moment hyper-clear in his mind.

The young woman wearing a Camelbak spotted him first. She punched the guy beside her in the shoulder when he asked her in a dramatic voice if she just saw Mothman.

“Leave her alone,” said the other young woman as she adjusted her glasses, and America slid into the shadows.

He barely breathed, watching the group of hikers.

“Like…”—The guy grabbed something from Camelbak girl’s hands—“This?”

He ran off, laughing manically as Camelbak girl chased after him.

“Craig!” she cried, her earlier anxiety burning up in the sudden blast of anger.

America closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. She smelled like a blown-out candle floating in gin infused with rose petals and rosemary. His fangs pressed against his lip as she smiled, nails digging into the tree’s papery bark as he watched the twenty-somethings laugh and yell at one-another.

“Ah c’mon, Sydney!” the guy said when Camelbak girl snatched her possession back from him and let him out of the half nelson hold. “You gotta learn to loosen up and let that stick fall outta your ass!”

“Dude, give her a break,” said the second guy half-heartedly. He helped glasses girl down the steep part of the trail.

The soil grew softer and more slippery thanks to the nearby creek. Last month, there’d been several huge storms, and the creek was still shrinking down to its usual size, so unless the four were used to this terrain, it wouldn’t be hard to get them to slip or get stuck somewhere.

“You were laughing earlier!” Craig complained, leaning against a tree while trying not to look like Sydney had hurt his arm.

Craig. Sydney. They had names. The other two had names, too. They were people. With friends and family and futures.

But America didn’t—couldn’t—care. All there was… was Hunger.

He was grabbing Craig before realizing it. He was wiry, and his natural scent was obscured by too much Axe deodorant. He was partway through uttering a shocked swear when America’s fangs sunk into his neck. Craig slumped into his arms immediately, less of a fight than a child would be.

He was warm in America’s cool hands. He tasted of vinegar mixed with olive oil painted over a Granny Smith apple.

“Craig?” Sydney called from barely a foot away on the trail. “Yo, fucker! You better not be about to pull that jumpscare shit on me again! I’ll aim for between your legs this time, I swear to God!”

Further up the trail, the other guy asked what was going on.

Dropping Craig, America stepped out onto the trail and bit into Sydney’s neck before she had the chance to scream. She tasted even better than she’d smelled. She was intoxicating; it felt as though she were coaxing him on. She _wanted_ him to drink from her. He _deserved_ her, this. He deserved all of their lives, their blood, their souls.

It was only right.

“ _Oh my God_!” Glasses girl shrieked as she pointed her flashlight at America and Sydney. “ _Derek do something_!”

Sydney crumpled to the ground, still and the possession she’d reclaimed from Craig earlier inches from her outstretched hand.

America stepped on it as he smiled, vertical pupils constricting in the sudden light. Glasses girl paled, and her boyfriend was frozen in terror. A chuckle rumbled from the back of America’s throat when he noticed that Derek had his hands on Glasses girl’s shoulders, like he was ready to shove her forward to save himself.

Smile splitting his face in half, America lunged forward, and the girl screamed, then went silent. Derek ran, swearing with each exhale, and America mentally traced his path as he drank from Glasses girl. Her flavors weren’t as sharp as Craig’s and only had a hint of the same dryness as Sydney. She had a too-sweet aftertaste that made America shove the corpse away with a growl.

His stomach was bloated now, but Hunger continued to writhe within him.

Not remembering running up the trail, America caught up with Derek and heard other voices.

Licking his lips, America tackled Derek to the ground and flipped him onto his back.

“Please—!”

Up and over, his neck snapped, and his body stilled, face frozen in panic.

There were three other humans, one shouting from inside a tent what was wrong. Another shouted that she was trying to read.

America squatted and waited for one of them to come near the trail’s opening.

It wasn’t long before a middle-aged man approached, his flashlight’s beam catching America’s gore-drenched face.

“Wha—?”

America bit into him and drank, though not for long. He was even sweeter than Glasses girl. Cream and honey filtered through sugar and massaged into blackberries and golden crust.

“What’s going on?!” another camper shouted, drawl losing its sleep-infected slur. “John? _John_! Wha—Karen, stay in the tent. Keep your phone out. Call the ranger when I say.”

America pushed John aside and waited. The next man was lankier, whiskers playing along his jawline and upper lip.

He swore loudly when America yanked him into the copse of trees, his flashlight falling to the ground.

“Rob?” called the woman that had complained about trying to read. “Rob, answer me!”

The lanky man gurgled a response as America bit into his neck, tearing out his windpipe. Any more blood and America’s stomach would rupture. The Hunger was a song in him now, making him dizzy with bloodlust. His veins hummed, and his heart raced.

He held Rob as he watched the life fade from his dark eyes, and he smiled as he heard the woman trip out of her tent, shouting Rob’s name again and again, the ranger forgotten.

A laugh ripping from his mouth, America broke from the trees, spotting Karen. Her hair was a rat’s nest around her head, and her lips were parted in mid-call. Her eyes widened as they drank America in. The blood dripping from his mouth and rolling down his neck said all she needed to know.

“Rob.” The word was a plea, a prayer.

It was her last word. She didn’t fight, didn’t run. Her only defiance was looking America straight in the eye as his hand crashed through her breast plate, fingers curling around her heart.

America stood there, holding her heart as his body sang with adrenaline and bloodlust.

And then the spell was over.

The heart slid from America’s hand and plopped on the ground like a ball of meat. His knees buckled beneath him, and sobs strangled his scream into cough-like interments.

He felt their pain, their fear, their deaths.

His own citizens. Killed by his own hands.

The bodies were burned to ash scattered by sunrise, dirt overturned to hide the blood. The campers were labelled as missing within two days, and America left the state in a daze.

All he could hear was the sound of Glasses girl screaming.

* * *

America’s voice was a monotone by the time he reached the end. He stared at the wall, body cold and heartbeat an echo in his hollow chest.

Then he was quiet, and Germany didn’t offer any words to cut through the stiffening silence.


	12. Herne

Interesting how many clues could be find using hindsight—and how useless.

Leafing through a leather-bound tomb with a seven-pointed star stamped on the bottom corner of its cover, Canada lost himself in thought.

A little over a year ago, Canada and America met up for lunch in New York City and ate lunch at a quaint hole-in-the-wall place in Little Italy. It was the kind of place only locals knew about.

America had excitedly dragged him inside, his words a mix of English and Italian to where it sounded like its own dialect. When Canada had brought it up, America laughed, saying Romano used to threaten to poison his food if he kept bastardizing his language.

That had led into a slew of various stories that barely related to one-another, but Canada enjoyed the passion in America’s voice when he talked. He could be brash and stubborn, true, but he committed easily and poured emotion into everything he said and did, faithful that his well of it was bottomless.

It was a direct contrast to Canada’s preference to stomp on emotions when they flew too high, feeling the need to keep his feet on the ground. It would make it easier for him to catch those who chose to soar when they fell—for they always did, even America. Maybe especially America.

Canada had known immediately that something was wrong when America’s voice started to falter, followed by watering eyes and stomach pain. Canada had quickly left a small stack of money (a mix of his and America’s currency in the rush) before helping him out of the restaurant and to a cab.

America assured him that it was the sweets he binged on the night before plus the big breakfast that morning catching up with him, and Canada had bought it, hook, line, and sinker.

When the culprit had actually been the garlic in their lunch.

Then, months after that, during their annual camping trip with that year being the location of Canada’s choice, America had disappeared for some time that night. Canada hadn’t worried at first, thinking America had just gone out to find a tree to water, but when he awoke again and still saw an empty sleeping bag beside him, he’d worried.

Still, he’d been so warm in his own sleeping bag, and he hated moving even when nature called when Kumajiro was nestled against him. He always felt bad for jostling the forever-cub awake even when he knew that he would just fall asleep again seconds later.

So Canada had told himself that America was looking for cell service or something before falling asleep again.

Now, Canada wondered if America had been hunting for a blood donor.

Donor. It was the kindest word for it, if not truthful, but Canada didn’t like thinking of them as victims and America as their attacker.

“Are you even reading that?”

Scotland’s words and him flicking Canada’s stubborn curl dragged him out of his thoughts.

Glancing down, Canada saw that he was nearly three-fourths into the tomb but couldn’t even recall what it was supposed to be about.

Sighing, Canada slammed the book shut. “I never thought through what I was going to say to Al after confronting him.” He stared at the seven-pointed star on the tomb’s cover. “I guess I was hoping he’d laugh, say I was being ridiculous, and even if it was a lie, everything would go on as normal.”

Scotland nodded and took the book away from Canada, replacing it with a thinner one. “That one is written in modern English—one of the ones he recopied, looks like from the first page. I doubt you can read Common Brittonic or Vulgar Latin.” He lifted the book he’d taken from him.

The tome could have been written in Sanskrit, and Canada wouldn’t have noticed with all the thoughts running through his head taking up so much space. He sighed again, shoulders slumping as his cheeks warmed. He didn’t like having his intelligence taken into question, even if the person questioning was correct to do so.

But he knew better than to attempt deciphering languages he didn’t know or had ever bothered to learn.

“Making yourself useful is better than worrying about the could haves anyhow.” Scotland opened the book to a random page and frowned. If he still knew either dialect, it was buried under centuries of disuse. “Romania will be down with food inna bit, if he’s not lazing about.” He shook his head and moved a book from a nearby podium to put the book he was holding in its place. “And part of being useful can be finding where the hell Arthur hides his notebooks and pens.”

Putting his book into an empty place on the shelf, Canada went deeper into the underground library. “I remember seeing an office back here. Do you think you’ve found something?”

“A few words. I’m not exactly fluent, but I found something about iron teeth.” Scotland’s voice was thoughtful and forced Canada to strain to hear him. “In Glasgow in the nineteen-fifties, there was a report of a couple lads getting strangled and eaten by a vampire with iron teeth, but no children were missing that any of us could find. It was more a scare than anything, all the children running through graveyards after.”

“Sounds familiar….” Canada found the office. It was a small cubicle of a room with no door, most of the space taken up by a large, oak desk covered in loose parchment, vials of ink, rocks, herb bundles, and other miscellaneous items. He recognized a couple of badly-made clay bowls he and America had made for him several Christmases ago.

“America had a comic book about a vampire like that I think about that time,” Scotland said. “Figured it was boys mistaking fake for real. Happens all the time, irritating as it is.”

“ _Asanbosam_!” Canada called out as Scotland finished speaking.

“Who now?”

“Ghana was talking about a vampire like that last Halloween. America invited her to his annual party, and she got there early, wanting to help decorate—something about America being too easily-scared and tacky”—Canada found a mostly-empty notebook in the desk’s top drawer and started searching for a pen—“and we talked about different creatures, one being vampires. Philippines was there too and was talking about _aswangs_ and _manananggals_. Ghana mentioned _asanbosams_ , which are vampires from Ashanti folklore.”

Canada finally found a regular ballpoint pen and brought it into the main body of the library.

“And they have iron teeth?” Scotland took the notebook and flipped it to a clean page.

“And iron hooks for feet, I think.”

“Hmm.” Scotland took the pen and started writing, cursing England’s handwriting. “Also makes me think of an old story I heard.”

“About vampires being part-fairy?”

“England told you, eh?” Scotland smirked, but it fell a moment later. “Fey can’t touch iron. There’s different stories why, and none of ‘em will tell me which is true if any of ‘em are. Knowing the fey, iron probably burns because we believe it does, need for them to have a weakness we can access.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Well, I’m too busy to explain.” Scotland huffed and cursed the handwriting again as Romania started down the staircase.

“Leftover stew and burnt bread,” he sang, “and a budding fistfight upstairs.”

“Italy and Romano are here?” Canada asked, taking the burnt bread he was offered. He’d eaten enough of England’s food as a kid that this tasted like France’s food in comparison. England had gotten better at cooking over the years, his biggest flaw being impatience.

“Yep.” Romania set the tray onto the nearby table once Canada moved aside enough books. “Rosario is convinced America was Turned way more than two years ago. Something about late nights and no taste in ‘human food’ and refusing to step foot in a cathedral. When I left he was trying to make America confess he bit him.”

Many of America’s people were anti-Catholic when Romano was living with him, so that explained why he hadn’t gone into cathedrals, and America had always been a night owl.

Everyone made fun of his taste in food. No one was letting him forget that he ate (and enjoyed) deep-fried sticks of butter at his states’ fairs.

Then, everyone liked poking fun at everyone. While nations were nothing without their people, literally, their sanities would be nothing without each other—people who knew first-hand how it living as friends and lovers died, taking orders that killed your soul, constantly wondering how any god could be so cruel to show them what free will looked like only to say it wasn’t theirs to keep.

Before Canada could respond, Scotland ripped out the paper he’d been writing on and shoved it at him. “Take that to Arthur, and I’ll try to get more. Valeriu, look through that book on the table with the green cover—no the other one—I think I saw a spell in it that should work.”

“Pronounced it wrong, but at least he’s not calling me Valerie or Vlad,” Romania grumbled under his breath as he started flipping through the green cloth-bound book.

Heading to the steep staircase, Canada looked down at the paper. Scotland had re-written a short passage in the original language with some notes in the margins. The translation was underneath with more notes in brackets and parenthesis, due to words with multiple translations that could work in the context or the context being unclear.

The gist of it was that England must have met with a vampire with fangs and nails he’d had crafted from iron for him, and this vampire had led the Order of the Hunt.

The vampire had called himself Herne, and Scotland had made a note in the margin that earliest accounts of Herne the Hunter were during Shakespeare’s time, centuries after England wrote this account.

Canada didn’t know much about Herne other than the name being familiar, but his mind spat out _Wild Hunt_ as he reached the doorway into the den.

The last sentence was Scotland’s underlined note, which Canada paraphrased over the sound of Romano’s and America’s bickering as he handed the paper to England:

“Alfred’s not the target. You are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this update up! QAQ I've been battling writing block and art block while trying to keep up with other commitments. My mood's still in a downswing, making it hard to write, but it's starting to lighten up some. I'll try to get the next chapter up soon; I really enjoy working on this after having let it sit for so long. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope y'all continue to enjoy the story!


	13. Preparation

Well. This was a plot twist. Alfred almost wanted to rub it in England’s, France’s, and Scotland’s faces, but now wasn’t the time for that. He’d have to settle for a clever quip slipped in at the right time, probably during battle.

Which would be tonight if England was right.

He probably was, even if the hunch came from a self-proclaimed witch in a city where everyone with some tealights and a quartz crystal called themselves a witch.

America remembered Nikki, though, and she’d _felt_ like the real deal, however she’d gotten into the occult. That sachet she’d held had been enough to stall him, though his ebbing Hunger was majorly what had allowed him his semblance of sanity back.

He trusted her too, a girl he’d never met, though him being a nation had given him a view of her others might call psychic. He knew she was the oldest of five, as much a parent as her single mother, father buried and step-dad deciding he’d never wanted kids after all. Nikki had been the one to find the note he left next to the coffee pot. Jackass—she’d actually liked him, trusted him.

She’d dedicated herself to Hecate. Even if America didn’t really think the goddess existed outside of myths, he’d felt her love, her faith, the fact that she’d been praying when facing the monster that attacked her peers.

“Kiku will land soon,” Germany announced as he entered the kitchen. He looked at the mug America held out before finally taking it. “Matthew went to pick him up, and Romania said the… spell would take a half-hour or more to, well, complete.”

America sat at the table and sipped his coffee to hide his smile. Germany was more of a skeptic than he was. This had to be dizzying for him—a tornado where he kept getting hit by debris but couldn’t seem to slip into unconsciousness. He couldn’t deny all this wasn’t real and he was being lied to. He’d seen just enough to shatter the shield of “That’s just superstitious nonsense” and render it useless.

“Guess we’ll see if those wards or whatever keep ‘em out,” America murmured into his coffee. The strong smell helped block out everyone’s lingering scents.

Japan’s house in Shima was small, so at the G7 meeting last year, the rest of them had stayed at a hotel. They’d had separate rooms at the Schloss Elmau the year before that, since Germany didn’t own a home near there. Bavaria did, but she wouldn’t have enjoyed hosting the lot of them, anyway.

This was the first time America was having to spend so much time with other people, and it was harder to keep a stopper on his Hunger, even when he’d been sated not long ago.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Germany set his mug on the table after tasting the coffee, opposite of where America sat. He then helped himself to some of the spaghetti Italy had made in attempt to calm Romano down.

Both of them were in their room now. After Canada came up from the basement with a translation from one of Arthur’s old books, Romano and America both agreed that arguing wasn’t getting them anywhere. There’d been a certain look in his eye before he’d gone upstairs, though. A question stopped by his clenched teeth and resulting only in the twitch of his mouth.

He’d wanted to know what America tasted when he drank someone’s blood.

Romania had asked him before they’d gotten into the taxi last night. He’d wanted to know if it was different from his experience, but they tasted blood similarly. Romania learned more about the donors than America did, though. America could tell if the donor liked to drink too much, or if they did drugs, since it altered their taste, and he could tell if they had a blood-borne disease just from their smell. He also gleaned bits of their personality on occasion, but it was like trying to see someone through a wall of frosted glass. You knew someone was there but couldn’t discern any real identifying features.

 _“I feel their greatest fears,”_ Romania had whispered, crimson eyes suddenly old and chilling. _“Their lost loves and regrets. If it’s recent enough or strong enough, I can’t tell the difference from their memories and mine.”_

Then the taxi had arrived, and Romania’s usual persona had snapped back into place so quickly that America briefly thought he’d hallucinated the confession.

“Doing what?” America dragged himself out of his thoughts enough to remember Germany had asked him a question.

He took another sip of his coffee and shifted in the chair so he was hunched with his feet on the seat and chin atop his knees. England wasn’t here to yell at him for it, and he preferred sitting this way, even if others claimed he just did it to mimic L from _Death Note_.

“Holding your coffee so close to your face even when you aren’t drinking it.” Germany poured bolognaise sauce over the spaghetti and brought it to the table. “And I haven’t seen you eat all day.”

He stated it like he might a fact in a textbook, but America knew he was worried. A barb in his heart tugged, went slack, tugged again. He didn’t deserve worry, conversation, him. But Germany deserved answers, as he’d said before, so America answered him:

“It helps. Th-the smell of the coffee. It’s strong and blocks—the others”—He’d almost said _you_ —“out. So I don’t smell y-them as much.” He paused for a moment, watching Germany take a bite of food out of the corner of his eye. He could smell the garlic now that it was closer. “And I’m not hungry. I… drank enough last night. I won’t need food until tomorrow.”

Germany’s next bite looked forced, like he refused to let the image of America drinking blood ruin his appetite.

Minutes stretched on as they sat in silence, America occasionally sipping his coffee and Germany eating dinner.

Italy came downstairs before England, Scotland, and Romania returned.

“Rosario is taking a bath,” he announced, practically bouncing into the kitchen to get a plate. “He’s calmer, though. Where’s everyone else?”

If not for Romano mentioning his brother’s quirks when he was staying with America, he’d think Italy was either cool with everything or oblivious. He was good at hiding how he felt when he wanted to. He and Romano traded emotional breakdowns, one always remaining calm when the other was upset.

“England, Scotland, and Valeriu should be inside shortly,” Germany said and checked his watch. “Matthew should arrive with Kiku twenty-one-hundred hours at the latest.”

With baggage claim plus traffic, an hour-long window was probably guessing too short, but America didn’t comment and instead asked Italy if he was feeling alright. He hadn’t had the chance to talk much other than arguing with Romano after he and Italy were briefed on the situation.

Sitting at the head of the table, Italy nodded as he took a large bite of food. He did it to give himself enough time to formulate an answer.

 _“He’s a Hedonist above most else,”_ Romano had said once while tipsy, affectionately stroking drunkenness. _“But he knows everyone knows that. Uses it. Plays on it.”_

The words that came after were slurred by wine and garbled by time.

“The flight was good,” Italy said after swallowing. “I napped, so it felt like it went fast.” His smile was infectious; even Germany couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth curl slightly upwards. “Rosario spent the time reading our notes—”

The back door blew inwards, and Italy dropped his fork in surprise as Alfred’s mug crashed on the floor. He smelled silver mixed with barley and oats as the air by the open doorway shimmered.

Buttercup was here, but no one in the room could see or hear him.

His presence was enough to tell something was wrong, though, and as America got to his feet and opened his mouth to say as much, Scotland screamed, “ _FUCK NO_!”

Germany and America were already outside as Italy screamed at his brother that there was trouble.

Blood pumping, America sprinted towards Scotland and Romania, the world coming into hyper-focus as his pupils elongated to slits, red bleeding into his irises and pushing against the blue. He bared his fangs in a savage snarl as a sickening swirl in his gut told him other vampires were nearby. They were in front of a wall of shimmering air, talismans hanging from nearby trees flashing green, blue, and red as the vampires tried to get past the wards.

The sun was setting. There was enough light to see by, but there was less enough sunlight to endanger any vampires older than a half-century.

There was a vampire corpse behind Romania, who stood with his feet spaced apart and palms aimed at the near-invisible wall of crackling energy. Scotland was setting its decapitated head and torn-own heart on fire with a spell, sweat making his curls stick to his forehead. England was in a similar stance as Romania, but his shoulders shook.

It looked like there were five vampires, fewer than the first attack.

Sliding to a stop by England, America glared at the vampires, pushing up his glasses.

“Came before we finished the wards,” Scotland quickly explained. “Won’t be long before they bulldoze through.” He turned around when Italy called out to them. “In the shed! Grab anything sharp!”

“Why only five?” America asked, voice a growl.

Scotland glanced at him. “Six.” He motioned to the corpse. His hands were black from soot and backlash of using a fire spell without drawing protection sigils first. The burns would take time to heal. “Don’t know. Might just be a distraction. If the book’s right, they’ll want Arthur.”

Italy and Romano (dressed haphazardly in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt) handed Scotland and Germany axes. America hadn’t even noticed he was next to him. He accepted a dagger with an absentminded nod but hissed soon as his hand touched the cold metal of the guard.

He dropped the dagger, and Romano quickly picked it up again, saying if it burned him it’d burn the vampires. Scotland told him to hand it to England soon as the wards dropped.

“This one, then,” said Italy, handing a knife to America, which he took with another nod.

It didn’t burn, and the handle was white like bone. It looked like a sickle (or boline, maybe). There was something etched into the blade, telling America it saw ceremony more than battle. Oh, well. War was its own ceremony, a ritual passed down generation to generation. And if the blade broke, America was strong enough to rip a vampire’s head off its shoulders or heart from its chest without help of a weapon.

England and Romania backed up. The wards fell. Romano handed the vampire-burning dagger to England, who smiled savagely upon recognizing it.

The vampires’ cries rose like one voice as they charged.


	14. Dealing Memories

France heard the battle begin as he reached neared the end of the hidden tunnel. It sloped gently downward before reaching a large, circular room under a clearing in the forest at the north side of the manor, near the edge of the property line. Above, slanted, fading light filtered through an opening. It was narrow, and the steps along the wall leading up to it had been worn and chipped by time.

It was this circular room with the magical Seal etched into the rock floor that England found first when searching the property several decades ago. He’d then found the tunnel, then the rooms that were now his basement/study/magical library. He’d had the manor built where it was because of this place.

“It’s full of magic,” England had said in a wistful voice.

His smile had been contagious, even as France remembered.

As he remembered the last time he’d seen this place, crawling through the narrow opening after that small child wearing a brown cloak much too big for him.

The worst part of their existence, France believed, was that they appeared as children with a child’s mind. They grew up quickly or slowly, sometimes with reason and sometimes without. In retrospect, it didn’t seem like childhood—not as any human would call it. What kind of childhood could be defined by bloodshed, war, hate, and politics?

They’d loved as children were wont to love, and they’d teased with innocence quickly and easily shattered soon as a ruler pointed at a neighbor, playmate, friend, and demanded, “Attack. No mercy.”

Memories were the worst of all. They remembered as nations, first and foremost.

The memories they made by their individual choices—as Francis or Arthur or Gilbert—were muddled with those nation-memories, sometimes unrecoverable.

But there were ways to remember.

Staring at the narrow opening and hearing the battle aboveground, France remembered the little boy. His brain first showed golden hair with thick eyebrows thrice that dark. When he strained, needing the memories he had as Francis—back then Catusius—not the memories morphed by nationhood.

The child had wavy hair of a color Francis could only think to describe as rose gold. Low but thin eyebrows that moved to show a wide range of emotion on a freckled face were usually gentle arches over pale blue eyes.

France’s memories took over again, and he stumbled, pressing his palm against the tunnel wall. The child was golden-haired and green-eyed once more, the smile on his face a pouty scowl. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in deeply, held it, and breathed out.

The others were meeting the vampires head-on. France slowly straightened and stared at the Seal, which was a series of squares laid over one-another to resemble a geometrical star within three circles. Between the circles were more geometric shapes and lines that looked like angry jabs into the rock. The outermost circle was an ouroboros, and in the center, there was a seven-pointed star with alchemical-like symbols in the spaces between the points.

It was dark now, and France pulled a leather draw-string bag out of the pocket of his suede jacket. He stepped into the circular room and opened the bag, smelling frankincense and ginseng. If he remembered correctly, there was also belladonna, Datura, and hemlock, so he was careful not to touch or breathe in the dust.

Swallowing, he walked around the outermost circle, moving counterclockwise as he sprinkled the summoning dust from England’s study onto the floor. He sang the chant he’d been taught, the words cloying, as though incense were spilling from his lips. Pressure pressed against his temples and moved downwards into his ears, followed by high-pitched ringing.

His eyes burned as he struggled not to cough, his body rebelling in his actions, demanding he stop and stop now.

The Seal flashed gold, then silver, then gold again before fading to a glow just bright enough to see around the room. France stopped walking and pulled a penknife out of his other pocket. He made a small cut just below his wrist, just deep enough for a steady line of blood to drop into the mostly-empty draw-string bag. The wound healed quickly, and France quickly stuffed his hand into his pocket to avoid dripping blood onto the floor.

Breathing shallow, he tossed the bag into the Seal.

It was caught by a clawed hand with only four fingers. The fifth was in a part of England’s basement he had yet to discover the existence of.

Francis remembered, though. He’d been there when England cut off the finger and nearly died for it.

“Young Catusius…,” the demon rumbled in a purring growl that streamed through his fangs. They were so long that he couldn’t close his mouth all the way, and his wire-thin lips bore old and new cuts. “Not so young anymore.”

“My name has changed,” France said but did not say what it had changed to.

He knew better now than to offer his name to supernatural entities. Names had power, but as nations’ names had to change regularly, it gave them an advantage. It was a small advantage but an advantage nonetheless.

The demon stood over the seven-pointed star and should be unable to pass the innermost circle. If he did, the second one would stop him long enough for a banishing spell to be cast.

“Of course.” The demon morphed into an image of France, though it wasn’t exact. His hair was longer and board-straight. His eyes were purple, like Russia’s, but with a bit of blue around his rectangular irises. His feet were still cloven hooves, and he was still missing the index finger on his left hand. “What is it you desire?”

“A deal.”

**X X X**

The boline’s handle grew hot in America’s hand as vampire blood covered the curved blade. He barely noticed, yanking the knife back and grabbing the vampire’s head by the hair with his free hand. With a sharp twist, the vampire’s eyes widened just before America broke the spine. Its head and body were connected by only skin and tissue.

The body fell as America let go and kicked, completely separating the head as it flew towards the manor. Still moving, America twisted around and slashed the hand of an oncoming vampire. It didn’t register the injury and ducked around America’s next swing and dug its claws into his side.

Hissing in pain and anger, America grabbed the vampire by the face just as England showed up, seemingly out of nowhere. He plunged his dagger’s blade into the vampire’s back, and it roared in pain as it crumpled to the ground. Its flesh burned where the dagger had touched it.

There was no time to thank him before the next vampire leapt down from a nearby tree.

An axe flew at the vampire and sank into its head; it dropped to the ground as America danced out of reach and caught Germany’s eye. They nodded to one-another, and America took the axe and tossed it back to Germany, who beheaded the vampire with one swing before it could rise, and America kicked its head into the woods.

“How many—?”

Germany stopped speaking as the ground began to shake.

Everyone became still, even the remaining vampires.

America smelled something hot and nasty, like rotten eggs—sulphur, he realized, tasting it in the air. He gagged, and when he looked around and saw Romania covering his nose and eyes wide in fear, America felt his heart plummet.

“What is it?” Germany asked quickly, nearly tripping as he stepped closer to America.

The ground stopped shaking soon as it had started, and the vampires ran back into the woods.

No one spoke, and any animals nearby were silent. The sun had set, and while a security light on the side of the manor had come on, its light was weak and stuttering. The moon was barely a sliver of white, and the stars looked cold and judgmental.

“The fuck was that?” Scotland breathed, his voice a sharpened blade through the silence.

Looking over at him, America saw he knew—or feared he knew—the answer to his own question.

“Where’s France?” Italy asked. His voice didn’t seem to belong to him; it was too calm, and he looked as though he were here in body only, mind and spirit viewing them from above. Romano stood by him, a hand grasping his upper arm in support. “I haven’t seen him since Canada told us about this ‘Herne’ person.”

Alfred looked around again; France wasn’t here. He hadn’t left with Canada, he was sure. He’d said something about jetlag, though his flight here hadn’t been long. At least, America thought he’d said something about jetlag.

While often exuberant, a force that shone like the sun when he walked into a room, when France wanted to be invisible, he was invisible. Now you see him; now you don’t.

“Scotland,” England called, already running back to the manor, “check the basement with me. Romania, you show Italy and Romano how to set the wards with you! America, you join them. Germany, check upstairs.”

Everyone followed the instructions without argument, but Germany gave America a long look before heading to the manor, steps quick. He dropped the axe before entering, and America sighed before heading over to where Romania was, trying not to gag or cover his mouth. The sulphur smell wasn’t too strong anymore, but it lingered and clung to his nose and tongue like barbs in clothing.

Romano and Italy didn’t seem to smell it, though, or if they did, it wasn’t strong enough for them to react.

Super smell was more of a curse than a blessing.

“How the fuck are we supposed to do this exactly?” Romano demanded.

Hand lowering from his face, Romania’s mouth twitched, but he ignored the accusatory tone.

“Did you see those metal disks hanging in the trees?” Romania asked. He nodded when Italy affirmed. “We’ll need to charge those. Going one at a time, hold a seal and meditate. Picture light—whatever color you think first—and picture it going into the seal.”

“That’s it?” asked America and Romano in unison with equal tones of skepticism.

Huffing, Romania nodded. “When you feel the seal vibrating, knock on it three times. If it glows the color you pictured, it’s charged.”

“And if it glows a different color?” Romano asked.

“Then it’s been corrupted,” Romania answered, “so get me or Scotland or England if they’ve come back out by then.” He drew in a deep breath. “There’s eight seals at the four cardinal directions. Italy, you work those.” Romania pointed to the nearby seals. “You two, follow me, and I’ll show you the others.”

This was the no-business Romania that made shivers glide over America’s spine. It was the Romania that glared at him when he asked about Moldovia and rammed his head against a wall when he almost took too much blood from someone. It was a Romania he didn’t want to mess with, and he followed him without question or quip.

America was posted at the northern corner and grabbed the closest seal soon as Romania left with Romano grumbling in Italian.

The seal was cold against America’s palm and fingers; he dropped the boline into the grass so as to hold the seal with both hands. There was something etched into the thin square of metal, but even with his enhanced night vision, he couldn’t really make it out.

“This better work,” he murmured.

Feet shoulder-width apart, America closed his eyes and took deep breaths. He inhaled for four beats, held it for five, and exhaled for eight. He continued this until he felt himself start to become lightheaded, and he evened his breathing to something more comfortable as he pictured light inside of him. It was scarlet and beat in time with his heart.

Tendrils of the light pushed through his arms and out his fingers. It covered the seal and seeped into it, pulsing as it did so. Soon, the light faded, and the seal buzzed in America’s hands, breaking him out of the meditation.

America knocked on the metal three times, feeling stupid.

Until the seal glowed magenta.

“Close enough?” thought America, but his body felt suddenly cold with dread his logic couldn’t place or analyze.

A chuckle from the shadows of the trees made the cold feel like ice in America’s veins, and he tensed, sensing a vampire’s presence.

“‘This isn’t horseshoes’ is the phrase I believe would be given in response.” The voice wasn’t very low-pitched but was recognizably masculine, and the accent sounded Bristolian.

A man a head shorter than America stepped forward, the magenta glow of the seal giving his pale skin and wild hair an odd cast that did not fit the mood.

Then America noticed his fangs. They were too long to fit inside his mouth, and they gleamed as the man smiled when he saw understanding dawn on America.

His fangs were metal—iron.

“Ro—!”

America was turning when strong hands grabbed his arms, squeezing hard enough to make him gasp. Then sharp, familiar pain flared along the side of his neck, and he was unable to stop a moan of pleasure from escaping as heat broke up the ice in his veins and made him heady and light as air. His brain fogged over, and his mouth curved into a lazy smile.

Someone was in front of him. Partially hidden by his thick, wavy red-blond hair was something that resembled a crown—or circlet, really. The metal was dark and rusted in some places.

The man’s cat-like pupils grew, black swallowing his irises, then the whites.

_You belong to me._

The words clanged through America’s mind. Then it became like oil massaged into his mind and spirit, and he felt the words, believed them, needed them to be true.

“I belong to you.”


	15. Deus ex Machina

“It’s done,” France said, tone saying he didn’t want an argument.

This was Scotland he was talking to, though. England hadn’t wanted to leave his boyfriend alone with his brother—also France’s ex, even if it was centuries ago—but Romania had fetched him after America alerted him to a corrupted seal. That left Scotland and France alone, deep in the basement where the ceiling was low, forcing Scotland to crouch. He’d already hit his head on the ceiling three times.

He was also holding his arm as he walked; it must not have healed completely before the fight. He’d probably gotten fed up with feeling like an invalid and chucked the sling away in true Alistair Kirkland fashion.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Scotland groused, knowing he couldn’t suggest France go back on the deal. He’d made his own deals during the earlier years of his life and knew firsthand what happened to oath-breakers.

Like all of them when young and stupid, he’d mistaken immortality for invincibility. Demons weren’t in the business of selling and trading bodies, however. It was souls they wanted—or, in lieu of souls, they wanted information, stories, songs, art, or deeds.

Or in this case, a finger.

It felt like a small errand for what France had wanted in return—which he’d managed to hide in a cubby right outside the summoning chamber before England and Scotland found him.

That this felt like a small errand was what made France nervous, and Scotland seemed to feel the same way.

“Well, I didn’t hear anyone else coming up with ideas other than ‘punch and pray’,” France shot back, glaring at Scotland out of the corner of his eye.

When at their best, the two could be a force to be reckoned with, bringing the brightest out of one-another.

When at their worst, they brought out the darkest shadows neither wanted anyone to see.

With so much fire and ice with nothing to promise comfort in-between, their personalities clashed in such a way that made it obvious their relationship was doomed from the start—alliances or no.

Being with England hadn’t felt much easier at first. Their first encounters had resembled hookups more than dates, but instead of flipping immediately from fire to ice, they’d eased down into embers—a slow descent that gave them the breathing room they needed while still feeling the heat they planned to create again.

Scotland was silent for three beats as France stopped and crouched, cursing when his cellphone beeped a fifteen-percent battery warning. The light didn’t dim, at least, but it would when it reached ten-percent, which would be soon. The battery was draining faster with each passing day; he’d need a new cellphone soon.

“None of it is your fault,” Scotland whispered. “And much as I’ve been putting blame on Alfred, I know it’s not really his fault, either. Or Arthur’s, whatever he has to do with this shit.”

France feared he knew what, but he didn’t want to believe it. What could possibly be gained from capturing Arthur—or whatever it was they wanted to do to him?

“And how the hell do you know about this?” Scotland asked when France pushed in a stone that was a few shades lighter than the others. 

As the stone was pushed inward, a stone closer to the ground moved outward.

Letting out a breath, France shone his cellphone’s light over that stone. It was hollow and held a drawstring bag made of hide—human hide, old blood marking both sides. Human teeth were strung through the human leather straps like beads, and even while Scotland blanched, he pretended not to know what it was.

“England showed me.” France’s voice flattened, and he picked up the bag. “Now come on if you insist on following me.”

The cellphone’s light dimmed halfway out of the tunnel, but the ceiling was slowly rising, and the air tasted fresher—they were close to the summoning chamber.

“Are we thinking of the same England?” Scotland asked in a murmur.

He’d been there when Spain was burned at the stake during his Inquisition. It wasn’t uncommon for the nations to have received capital punishment at the hands of their own government. Francis had been beheaded _twice_ during his revolution, and he’d helped Scotland sew his head back on after he’d been forced to follow Mary Stewart to the block.

Before being burned at the stake, Spain hadn’t bothered to hide his ire, his rage, his cynicism. The fire seemed to have given birth to a mask of gold—bright and invulnerable to rust. Very rarely could anyone—even France and Prussia, supposedly his closest friends—see behind that mask. Prussia said it was understandable, seeing as what being so blunt had gotten him, but something just hadn’t _felt_ right, and Scotland had said he felt it too.

When France concentrated, like he had in the summoning chamber earlier, he swore he could see obsidian eyes and night-colored hair sporting twin streaks of white that framed Spain’s face.

But then a migraine would hit, and France could only remember Spain’s emerald eyes, chestnut brown hair, and bright smile.

The feeling of wrongness only bubbled and festered the longer France tried to hang onto it, examine it; it was easier to just let it go.

“If you have to ask….” France let the response taper off, and Scotland nodded, expression grave.

They never talked about the rewritten memories, about how the people they knew, befriended, loved, could simply cease to exist and become someone new.

Be replaced.

If France himself was a replacement, would he ever be able to know?

France felt cold but only swallowed and stomped down on the feeling as he shut off the light on his cellphone. It’d be dead soon, and, anyway, they were close enough to the summoning chamber that the soft light of the ouroboros provided enough for them to see. The demon was gone, but until France’s part of the deal was fulfilled, the circle remained open. Should he go more than a moon cycle without fulfilling the deal, the demon would return, and with the contract nulled, he would be able to escape.

That kind of stupidity was how England had ended up with the finger in the first place—“Fool’s Prize,” France had dubbed it. He wondered if the demon wanted it back out of pride—being bested by a human resembling a child couldn’t have made him popular down in Hell—or if there was more to it.

France hoped the answer was pride.

Scotland’s eyes stayed on the drawstring bag as France opened it. He held his breath and swallowed bile as he did so. It felt as though ants crawled up his arm just beneath the skin as he reached in, pinching something hard and so cold that France couldn’t help but shiver. A thin, white cloud shadowed his long exhale, and France tossed the long, curled claw-like finger into the circle.

It disappeared anticlimactically before even hitting the ground. The light from the ouroboros extinguished, and Scotland took out his cellphone, turning on the flashlight app.

“Do I even want to know…?” he trailed off, going pale again.

Trying to ignore the fact that he was still holding a bag made from the flesh of a human he still remembered, France shook his head. “I don’t recall,” he lied, knowing Scotland wouldn’t believe him but that he wouldn’t question further.

They walked towards the library, France leading. He stopped by the office briefly to drop the drawstring bag on the desk. Scotland didn’t complain when France went through the drawers to find some hand sanitizer, but the ants-beneath-his-skin feeling wasn’t going away.

Flesh. Bone. Blood.

Mere fractions of a human being, a child of God, Felled by Adam’s and Eve’s gullibility.

Yet, those fractions were enough to bind a demon’s body part.

Canada descended the stairs as Scotland and France reached the library, Kuma waiting by the door. He stared down at them and blinked slowly before turning to return to the den. Canada didn’t seem to register that his pet was even there as he tried to catch his breath.

Japan’s flight must have landed early if he was here already.

“Romania’s hurt,” he panted, straightening. As Scotland opened his mouth, Canada quickly went on, “Arthur has some scratches on his face and chest. He still had that knife with him, and the vampire burned soon as he got him in the heart, he said. America’s arm is broken, but Romania got the worst of it. Arthur said to grab something down here, something he made specifically for healing Romania.”

Scotland nodded, knowing what was being spoken of. He ran for the storage room across from the office, and France went to Canada, leading him to the nearest chair. The boy looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and it was obviously wearing on him. He didn’t even protest being sat down, didn’t insist he was okay and that France should look at the others.

Canada had the unfortunate habit of pushing attention off himself and towards others, often out of the need to not feel selfish, but then he’d resent that no one paid any attention to him. The resulting tantrums had been both cute and annoying when he was a child, and France felt partly at fault, constantly drilling Catholic and Jesuit (like all nations, he’d switched religions easily as changing clothes) teachings of guilt into him.

Selflessness and altruism were wonderful things to teach and live by, France continued to maintain. However, since then, he’d learned that when kindness made you forget to allow yourself any care, it was no longer a virtue.

“Found it,” Scotland said as he ran for the staircase, holding a glass bottle too dark to see what was inside.

France pushed down on Canada’s shoulders when he tried to stand.

“Fran—”

“Unless you’re going up to lay down and rest, you’re staying here, sitting down and helping me look through some old journals.”

“How old?” Canada raised an eyebrow, one of the quirks he’d picked up from France. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. “I’ve forgotten pretty much all the Latin you taught me as a kid, not that the Latin in those books look familiar.”

France smiled. “Rest it is. Now go on up. I’ll help with Romania. Scotland and England are probably the only ones who can read anything down here, anyway.”

“Fran—”

“Vampires or no vampires, we’re going to have to do the meeting somehow, and you can’t do that while sleeping at the table,” France sighed. “We can’t exactly tell our bosses we skipped because of creatures from Hell were attacking us.”

Canada’s entire body sagged as he sighed. “No…. I guess not.” He tried for a smile, but it looked pained, and France helped him up. “To think I used to complain about boring meetings.”

“I’ve never heard you complain.”

Canada’s smile looked a bit less pained, but there was that shine to his light blue-purple eyes that said he was holding back emotion. “Not within earshot.”

France dropped the conversation and helped Canada up the stairs, patting Kumajiro on the head once they reached the top.

Italy and Romano were talking, Romano frowning at one of America’s journals while Italy talked to Japan, who was getting something in the kitchen. By the tone of his voice and the way his accent thickened when it was usually nearly non-existent told France he was very much not happy about what he’d arrived to.

As France and Canada passed by, Romano looked over, green-flecked amber eyes narrowed as he met France’s eye.

He knew what France had been up to, then, even if he didn’t know the details. Romano wasn’t about to throw stones when he’d been knee-deep in the same sin, however, so France ignored him.

Kumajiro followed Canada into his room, which was next to America’s, now occupied by Romania. France found America nursing his arm in the chair by the window, Germany kneeling beside him as the two bickered in hushed tones. It looked like Germany was trying to get America to show him his arm while America kept assuring that he was fine.

“I’ll take over,” France offered. He brushed Romania’s long, dusty-brown bangs away from his high forehead, which was damp with sweat. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he ground his teeth, fangs cutting into his bottom lip. “I have more medical experience than you two together.”

Like with Canada, the fact that neither England nor Scotland argued was testimony to their exhaustion. England briefly explained how to apply the potion in the bottle Scotland retrieved earlier and handed the gauze and crucible tongs.

“You two sleep,” France said. “Germany, you, too. As Japan if he needs rest after he’s done eating. Italy and Romano have had plenty for now and can rest later. America should be fine not sleeping for the night. He sleeps during the meetings, anyway.”

Germany looked ready to argue, but after a touch from America, the words died on his tongue.

France felt his heart squeeze inside his chest. They still loved each other; how he didn’t see that sooner, France couldn’t conceive. He usually had a sixth sense for this sort of thing.

“Fine.” Germany shot up and stalked out of the room, England and Scotland shambling after him.

Scotland was holding onto his arm again, and England growled at him to put his sling back on as he closed the door behind them.

Only Romania’s staccato breaths filled the silence as France focused on applying the potion along the edges of the gaping wound. Romania’s breathing rattled, his lung still mending itself as France used the crucible tongs to help keep his ribs aligned as they healed. Their healing powers—or whatever they should be called—weren’t perfect, and having to rebreak Romania’s ribs to make them heal in the correct positions would be tortuous.

Finally, America’s patience gave out. “What’d you want to talk about?”

A bit of a Yat accent still clung to his voice, softening the harshness of his tone. Much as France would tease America’s southern and Appalachian accents, he had a soft spot for this one and New Orleans in general.

“I got something for you,” France responded, keeping his eye on Romania’s exposed ribs as muscle began to reknit itself into place—too fast.

His lung wasn’t completely healed yet, and France whispered an apology as he used the nearby scissors to cut at the muscle. America rushed forward, broken arm shaking as he grabbed the jar of dust—it looked like Flying Mint Bunny’s dust, which he’d shake from his mane like dandruff to make people sleep—on the nightstand. Careful not to touch the dust himself, America sprinkled a bit over Romania’s forehead, putting him to sleep.

“Lesser of two evils,” America muttered, putting the dust aside.

Flying Mint Bunny must have needed to knock him out before France got here. Having been hit by that dust for prank purposes before, France sympathized.

America squatted by the bed, watching Romania. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose a bit, and his eyes were close enough now for France to see the almond-shaped pupils and ring of red clearly. It didn’t unnerve him like he thought it should.

Maybe he was tired, too numb to feel shock or unease. After all, he was cutting into a friend and rubbing God-knew-what over his lung, ribs, and muscle without a second thought.

“I don’t want whatever you sold your soul for,” America whispered suddenly.

“I really don’t think you are in a place to judge.”

America was silent for two beats. “This happened to me by accident.”

France let out a long breath, weight leaving his shoulders. America said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He knew why France might think America sought this out on purpose.

Romania did, after all, and America had had all those same fears back when he was a colony, unsure if he could be a nation, unsure if he’d live long enough to know how the revolution ended.

His biggest fear had been disappearing, and while he was an empire in everything but title now, he still retained that fear. It pushed him, made him want to expand, make him want his hand forever in the cookie jar, lest he come back and find it empty, gone, with him soon to follow.

 _“What happens when we die?”_ America had asked him not long after France arrived, just after Saratoga.

 _“Us. Not the humans,”_ America had clarified when France had been about to give a flippant Biblical answer. _“The Bible doesn’t mention us, not as people. England said we got our immortality from Eden’s personification eating from the Tree of Life instead of the Tree of Knowledge, but we can still….”_ He knew _dying_ wasn’t exactly the best way to describe what happened to nations like Gaul, Assyria, or Aztec. _“Do we just go back to Eden?”_

 _Or do we just disappear?_ had been a weight that pressed on the air in the room, and France hadn’t known how to answer.

 _“We go back to Eden,”_ he’d said finally with a ruffle of America’s hair.

The boy hadn’t smiled, though. He’d only nodded and left the tent.

“Everything you chose afterwards wasn’t an accident,” France whispered, sighing in relief when Romania’s lung finally healed. The brunette’s breathing eased, and his ribs were healing well. France could finally start with the stitches, and America handed him a pack from the kit on the nightstand.

“Here we go.”

“Alfred—”

“I don’t know how much you read in those journals”—America stood and walked back to the window—“but I don’t regret doing those things.”

There was a hitch in his voice that said that wasn’t entirely true.

France hadn’t read the journals, but he knew America better than he thought he did. He knew how tunnel vision could grab him by the throat, how cruel he could let himself be, justifying every means with his intended end.

 _“I am death.”_ France would never forget hearing America whisper that under his breath, thinking France and England couldn’t hear him—or not caring they could. His voice had been flat, almost regretful, but his eyes had been wide with awe.

 _“We’re gods, Catusius,”_ England said when they were kids, eyes alight with fire that had both pulled France forward and frightened him back. He saw that same fire in America.

But France also saw compassion in him, his easy trust getting him into more trouble than it had any right to. He remembered seeing him run into a burning building once, saving two and getting crushed by a fallen beam before he could save the third—and of course, it was that lost soul Alfred focused on, even after the survivors and their families stood around his hospital bed, calling him a guardian angel and thanking him.

 _“Saving our people is saving ourselves,”_ Alfred had said when France scolded him for being so reckless. “ _We’re living proof we’re all connected.”_

He’d been drowsy from morphine, and next time he woke up, he claimed not to remember saying something “so New Age-y.”

France hadn’t forgotten, though, and after so many centuries cycling through passion and apathy, it was that phrase that got him up again when all seemed bleak and void of meaning.

“Keep it with you, when this is all over,” France said. “You don’t have to take it, but I went through all that trouble, so at least keep it around as an option. I’ll show you where it is later.”

“What is it?” Alfred asked, coming closer to watch France work. He didn’t dare offer help; he was better at fighting than healing.

“Your _deus ex machina_ ,” France replied simply. “Don’t waste it. Now take off your jacket, so I can splint your arm correctly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for self harm and suicide ideation:
> 
> When I posted the A/N that said I was quitting, I was planning on committing suicide later that week. I ended up putting it off, because I had commissioned someone on a whim and wanted to wait until after I paid them for their work. The longer I put off killing myself, I more second thoughts I had, which led to me just feeling lost instead. I started starving myself as a way to self-harm, because I had promised not to cut myself anymore, and hitting myself didn't work as well. Eventually, I went back on my promise and started cutting again, thinking I'd just use a loophole (the specifics of my promise were "not to purposefully take a blade to my skin," so I started cutting using broken pieces of a mirror).
> 
> I've quit cutting (again), and I still haven't killed myself, but there are a lot of days I still want to, still beat myself up for not having done it yet.
> 
> But when I quit cutting, I got a raise at work (coincidence, but being religious, I find a bit of comfort in seeing it as a sign), and I won't have to work as many hours anymore (I average 60 hours a week, which hasn't been helping my mental health). I still have trouble thinking about a future for myself, but I've gotten well enough that I'm curious about what a future for me might hold.
> 
> Returning to this has helped some. Writing about the nations' fucked-up memories and identity crises is my way about bitching about my dissociation, which has been getting worse again.
> 
> I don't expect anyone to read this or the new chapters. It's shit , but, then, everything I make is. But maybe I can improve.
> 
> I'm just putting this here partly because it's an explanation for quitting before and partly to scream into the void, since I've never told anyone about my self harm or suicidal thoughts. Venting helps sometimes, and no one I know irl knows about my account here, so I don't have to worry about making them worry. They all have their own stuff to worry about.


	16. Stalker

England tossed and turned, and the squeaking from Scotland’s cot did not help matters.

He felt less ill, and color had finally returned to his face, which was still flushed from the fight earlier tonight. Still filled with anger that ached for release, he’d started screaming at America as he and Romania cleansed and respelled the corrupted seal. The lad had simply taken it, though he’d ground his teeth as he did so, fangs biting into his bottom lips and letting blood drip down his chin.

If he’d kept his anger in check, he would have sensed that vampire sneaking up on them. Romania and America would have smelled it, instead of being distracted by England’s tirade.

The salve reduced the burning on England’s face, shoulder, and chest, but he almost wanted to feel the stinging pain again, to receive due punishment.

All he felt was shame… and overheated. 

He kicked off the duvet, but the sheets were tangled around his legs. He was too tired to wrestle them off and just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Good God, his room felt stuffy. This summer was going to be hellish for sure.

The thought almost made England laugh. It built up in his throat, nearly choking him as he shook, sweat beading down his head and torso.

How he wished the bloody heat was the only thing for him to complain about.

Drifting, England balanced on that razor’s edge between sleep and wakefulness. He relived plunging that consecrated dagger into the bald vampire’s chest, having to try four times before finally hitting his heart. He tasted the vampire’s ash as the body practically exploded around him, settling in his hair and lashes, getting breathed into his nose and mouth, singing his cuts.

Even after showering for nearly an hour and gargling with mouthwash until the bottle was left nearly empty, England still felt it, still tasted it. He still smelled it, through the smoke of frankincense and myrrh incense he’d lit on his bedside table.

 _“Please put that away first,”_ Alfred had said as he picked up Romania. _“But keep it close. That thing might be our best chance. Where the hell’d you get it from?”_

 _“Left for me,”_ England had replied, trying to keep up as Alfred ran back to the manor, holding Romania close, trying to keep the blood flow as minimal as possible. _“Don’t know from who.”_

The dagger had been wrapped in cloth embroidered with a seal of protection, Enochian stitched around the edges.

England had never used it. With the gold plating and rubies in the hilt, he’d assumed it was more for ceremony than any sort of practical use, but the Enochian stitching had been clumsy, making it impossible for England to interpret what it had said—and Scotland claimed _his_ handwriting was bad.

Buzzing from underneath England’s pillow roused him from half-sleep, and he saw Dylan’s name and picture—dressed in Ravenclaw robes at Harry Potter World—on the screen. The mobile would die soon, the battery at four-percent, but England didn’t know where the charger was. He was always losing it, only finding it soon as he bought a new one. He judged Mustardseed was to blame, but the sprite played dumb.

“Talk fast,” England said in a low tone after accepting the call. “Mobile’s dead soon, and Scot’s passed out barely a meter away.”

“I never get invited to the sleepovers,” Wales muttered, though England knew he was joking. His ever-cool tone made it hard for others to notice what he was feeling, and his humor was even drier than England’s. “As for your Herne boy, I’ve dug up some sightings. Forums are a fucking ride, but I finally got something good.”

As if knowing England was about to snap at him for not talking fast enough, Wales went on, speech picking up speed:

“Most of the sightings were around Bristol. People claimed to have been kidnapped by him, do his bidding in sunlight, since Herne couldn’t go out in it. Sounded really _Jessica Jones_ , one girl saying she was ordered to dress a certain way and get her hair cut and styled a certain way until the mind control finally wore off. She can’t remember what she did at nights. Poor thing. She’s still terrified; I can’t blame her. Another girl was forced to play the piano in this abandoned house until she finally passed out from dehydration, barely getting found on time. One guy said he tracked down a vampire and killed it under Herne’s control, and another guy said he travelled to the US last year while under Herne’s control.”

“The US.” England was completely awake, mind racking.

“Herne made him spy on someone,” Wales continued. “Weirdest thing: He can’t remember who, and he only knows he’d travelled to the US because of the charges on his credit card. He says he was in Virginia mostly but also made transactions in West Virginia and Pennsylvania. He doesn’t remember travelling at all, though.”

A chill snaked down England’s spine.

“All of them describe meeting a guy with a crown of metal and fangs also made of metal, his mouth cut up from them.” Wales paused. “You’re not thinking the guy he was spying on was Alfie, right? I mean, the kid acts oblivious a lot, but he’d notice if a human was on this tail for two months. That’s how long the guy said—”

Wales cut off, and England spat out a line of oaths when Scotland’s mobile, plugged into the outlet by his cot, started playing the _Lord of the Rings_ theme at full volume. It cut off after a few seconds, and England scrambled out of bed, nearly face-planting on the hardwood floor.

“Hullo?” Scotland slurred, still half asleep. He grunted and put the phone on speaker. “What is it?”

“First,” came Wale’s voice, slightly altered and stuttering. He had trouble finding service on his end, and Scotland’s insistence on getting the cheapest mobile with the cheapest plan wasn’t helping. “Artie, just bribe Mustardseed to leave your charger alone, for God’s sake—”

“I am _not_ —”

“—and second: The guy that got mind-controlled to go spy on someone at America’s place was there for two months. Someone replied to him in the thread, saying he’d travelled too, putting himself into debt. This was the most recent post of all of them, and he said according to his credit card records, he’d been in London last week. He thought someone stole his credit card information at first, but he can’t remember anything from the last two weeks.”

“London,” England said, dragging a chair from his sitting area over by Scotland’s cot.

“Did you notice anyone following you?” Scotland asked.

England hadn’t.

“I don’t think someone with the username twat-swatter-sixty-nine was sent to spy on anyone,” said Wales. It sounded like his mouth was full. “Apparently the guy drives a _hearse_ of all things, and he said the windows in the back had been blacked out, and he found hairs on the mattress—I guess he lives in the car?—in the back that weren’t his. He said he has black hair, but the hairs he found were blond or red.”

“He was a chauffeur,” Scotland said, biting back a yawn. “Who though?”

“This Herne person or vampire or whatever-he-is,” England answered, rubbing his face and pushing his spiky hair back from his forehead. “Dylan said all these people making claims are from around Bristol. That must be where he stays. Did you find out anything else?”

“I don’t exactly have a lot to work with,” Dylan grumbled. “However, since you told me to look into vampires, I tried to see if there were more murders in the London area as of late. There aren’t, but there _have_ been three kidnappings, all within the span of the last month, all of the victims male, within their mid- to late twenties, blond, and with green eyes.”

England felt his blood freeze, and Scotland shot up, nearly yanking the cord out of the wall in the process. He was awake now.

Although centuries past his twenties, England’s ID noted him as 36, but everyone said he looked about a decade younger than that.

“If that’s a coincidence,” murmured Scotland, “it’s a bloody creepy one.”

“Kidnapped.” England heard his voice but hadn’t felt his mouth move. All he felt was the thrumming of his heart in his fingertips and toes. “But not killed.”

“If they’re dead, their bodies weren’t found,” Wales replied, sounding grim. “The most recent case isn’t actually a case, yet. I found a blog post through searching. The victim’s sister noticed the similarities of her brother’s disappearance to the other two victims and is trying to spread word and ask for information. I’ll send you the link, unless your computer is dead, too.”

England pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Thanks.”

Scotland set the mobile down on his bed, already moving towards the waist-high shelf in the sitting area. “But no ideas for this obsession? Was this the same vampire you mention in that journal entry, Art?”

“The vampire in that entry was described with gold-brown eyes,” Wales responded when England opened his mouth. “And with long, black hair. Well, to simplify Artie’s description. Did you have a crush on him or something?”

“Shut up!” England snapped, feeling overheated again.

God, he felt on-edge. All this happening in such a short amount of time was twisting his temper into a wick with one end stuck in a bottle of kerosene.

“Fine,” Wales sighed. “Not the best time for jokes. I get it. I don’t think it’s the same vampire, all the same. Those hairs found in the guy’s car were blond and red, and two people described his eyes as blue. One said they were all-black, like a demon’s.”

The all-black description could be from the person’s fear playing tricks on their memory, but England wouldn’t discount it right away. He wasn’t even sure how a vampire could have such powerful compulsion abilities in the first place. As far as he’d gathered, such abilities were myth.

Old vampires could charm, the remnants of their auras seeking out a human’s aura and making them appear more beautiful than they were. It was a hold-over from their faery parentage, England guessed. The Tuatha had similar charm abilities, but one wouldn’t live long enough to compare a Tuatha to a vampire twice.

But that wasn’t even close to what Wales was describing.

Scotland sat back on the cot with England’s laptop, and England tried to ignore the fact that his brother already knew the password—he could change it later.

“That’s all I got for now,” Wales said. “I’ll get back to you when I figure out more, and keep me in touch. Doing research with the little you’ve given me is hard.”

“We promise,” Scotland said before hanging up. “Here’s that e-mail.” He shifted around and moved the laptop, so England could see.

Eyes straining from the bright screen against the dark of the room, England got up to turn on the light. France would scold the two of them for not resting, but this was more important—and it wasn’t like England was getting much rest anyhow.

The link took them to a Wordpress post, which also had links to Tumblr, Blogger, and Weebly, probably all giving the same information. There was also a link to a funding page to raise money for a private investigation “since Scotland Yard does only jack and shit,” according to the angry and worried sister.

England had been bracing himself for a doppelgänger, and he had to stop himself from breathing out a sigh of relief when he saw the brother’s picture.

Daniel Cielinski had a long face with a soft jaw covered in stubble several shades darker than his honey blond hair. His eyes were lighter green than England’s and were flecked with brown and gold. His hair was long, past his shoulders, and his Devil-may-care smirk in the picture coupled with the bags under his eyes didn’t make him or his case look too sympathetic—a thought that made England want to kick himself.

Whatever his looks or history, he and his family deserved justice and piece of mind, and with that thought, England prayed the boy was alright.

“He was supposed to meet his sponsor for breakfast but never showed,” Scotland murmured, reading the post while England stared at the picture. “Yard probably thinks he’s back on drugs.”

“Honestly, I’d probably waive him off the same way,” England murmured.

“Anyone would,” Scotland sighed. “Even his parents, according to his sister. Even his girlfriend. Seems she and the boy’s sponsor are the only ones who believe in him.”

“I’d rather he be back on drugs.” England shook his head, bowing his head as he rubbed his temples. He still felt overheated and went to open the window. “Better than possibly being drained to death, or, worse, Turned.”

Could that boy have been one of the vampires that attacked? That England had beheaded with an axe or stabbed with his mystery dagger. As a breeze blew into the room through the window, England’s eyes turned to his bedside table, where the dagger lay, next to the incense dish.

“Something tells me this Herne is a bit picky about who he lets into his club,” Scotland yawned, jaw popping. “Looks like there was no break-in at Daniel’s flat, but a big iron nail was in the wall over his bed’s headboard.”

He pointed, and England returned to his chair, looking at the picture partway down the post. The bed was unmade, and on the nightstand was a glass bowl of chips. England recognized them from recovery meetings; Daniel looked to have been serious about staying away from narcotics, by the number of chips by his bed, and England could make out affirmations pinned to the bulletin board above the nightstand.

It was the iron spike that deserved attention, though. It was large and black, and by the noticeable rectangle of dust around it, the spike had been put in place of a picture or degree—it was mentioned that Daniel recently graduated uni.

“I don’t recall hearing of any kidnappings with a metal spike left behind,” Scotland grunted. “You?”

“None.” England wracked his brain. When he helped with investigations, it was usually major cases, and unless one of the victims happened to be related to a member of Parliament, it wouldn’t be considered major enough for England’s help. It sounded harsh, but he was too busy with all of his other duties as a nation. “It could be these ones are different, though.”

“Why?”

“Herne sounds vain and proud enough to leave something like that, to get my attention, then gloat if I never notice.”

Scotland grunted again. He wasn’t sure, but, then, neither of them was sure about any of this.

“Let’s show the others this, then,” he finally said, and England agreed, following him out of the room.

Japan was finished eating but picked at a brownie as he read one of America’s journals. He could never leave his idle, England had noticed. Japan needed to constantly be fiddling with something, but the time America had gotten him a fidget spinner, he’d looked at him like he wanted to throw it at his head rather than use it.

Italy was cleaning pots and bowls. He also always needed something to fiddle with or do. Others described him as the perfect houseguest, always cleaning up after himself (and others) without being asked, but it made England feel invaded, like he couldn’t even be allowed to clean his own house. He left it alone, though, bringing everyone’s attention to the laptop as Scotland set it onto the table.

“What are you doing up?” France asked as he came down the stairs, America behind him. “You should be resting.”

“Wales called with information,” England responded, trying and failing to keep the bite out of his voice.

France flinched a bit, and England eased up. He knew France got fussy over everyone when stressed. Holding himself up as everyone’s big brother, he felt responsibility he’d never received, feeling like it was up to him to fix others’ messes. Too often, this led to even bigger messes left in his wake, and England prayed to God and whichever other deity might be worth their salt that this demon summoning business wouldn’t become one of those times.

“And I wasn’t tired anyway,” England added. “Being unconscious for nearly twenty-four hours probably had something to do with that.”

France didn’t look convinced, and America winced— _Good_ , England thought, while at the same time telling himself it wasn’t entirely his fault—but he didn’t press the issue.

“What did Wales find?” Italy asked as he dried his hands, the tap now off.

His red-brown hair was still messy from the fight, and his striped button-up shirt had been torn in a few places. The bleeding on his arms had stopped and were wrapped up, but America kept a wide berth as he circled around the table to stand by the window. His eyes were still red around almond-shaped pupils. Japan noticed, but his face was impassive, the short nation looking cool and collected as always.

“How is your arm, Alfred?” he asked. The way he said America’s name, only recently having started leaving off any honorifics when speaking to him, said that despite whatever he may be going through having to take all this new information in, he still considered America a close friend.

The way America’s shoulders eased as he smiled showed he received the message and was glad for it. “Doesn’t hurt anymore. I’ll be fine.”

While France wasn’t going to push England into bed, he did guide him to a chair, letting him know that Canada, Germany, and Romano were asleep, and Romania was healing well.

At least a few of them were getting some rest.

Impatient, Scotland dove back into describing what Wales had told them about the guy who went to the US for two months, the guy who drove to London and found hair in the back of his hearse, and the kidnappings with the iron spikes.

“Did you notice anyone following you?” Italy asked America. He pretended not to notice his eyes but looked everywhere but at America’s face.

“No,” he replied, pretending not to notice. “When was this?”

“Dylan said it was last year,” said Scotland. “He didn’t say where at your place, though.”

“He did,” England said, remembering. “When he called my mobile, before it died. He said the man saw transactions in places at Virginia, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania.”

America’s brow wrinkled as he looked at the ground, unhurt arm wrapping around his waist. He remembered something but wasn’t sure how much information to give or if it even meant anything.

“When I wasn’t at DC,” he said slowly, “I was in New Orleans, really. The only time I was at my house in West Virginia was November when I started making everyone’s Christmas cards.”

There were dark rooms in all of America’s houses for photography, but he preferred his property in West Virginia. The place was secluded, surrounded by forest, and America claimed he worked better when surrounded by nature.

“I haven’t spent much of any time in Virginia,” America continued, “and I haven’t been in Pennsylvania at all last year, actually, not even for Philly cheesesteaks.”

England absent-mindedly took the not-picked-at brownie Japan pushed towards him.

“Do you remember what the vampire looked like?” Japan’s voice hitched at _vampire_. He was having a hard time taking all this in, but he was trying. “The one that bit you?”

“Long hair,” America answered after a moment. “Not really long, but to his shoulders. It was dark, but I can’t remember if it was brown or black. It was dark. I was at my place in West Virginia, and the storm knocked the power out. I was fiddlin’ with the breaker box when it happened. I don’t remember much else, other than waking up in a puddle, sore all over and cold, except for the burning pain in my neck, like poison, and in my throat, like I’d swallowed the poison, too, even though I didn’t remember doing that. I also remember tasting blood, but it tasted almost like wet dirt. Wet dirt and rust.”

His voice had lowered to a monotone halfway through the story, and his downcast eyes were flat.

“Why send someone a year after?” Scotland asked, refusing to let silence settle over the room. “Was that when you took…” He trailed off but motioned to the journals with one hand.

A corner of America’s mouth twitched as he thought. “Yeah. It was summer when that happened. Either June or July. I’d tracked the vampire to a nest in Oklahoma, sedated it, and brought it to my house in New Orleans.”

 _It_. America had compartmentalized his experiments, separating vampires from human. England thought back to Daniel, again wondering if he’d been Turned, if any of the kidnapping victims had been Turned. It made those memories of killing the vampires sit ill in his chest, cold and hard.

It wasn’t that he thought letting them live would have been the better decision. Only that it weighed more on his mind, and he couldn’t help but think that it should weigh more on America’s.

“Maybe the person wasn’t sent to spy on America,” Italy suggested, pulling the spare chair around to sit by Japan.

“Seems too coincidental to not be connected,” said France when England opened his mouth to say the same thing.

“I’m not saying it’s not connected,” Italy pressed, eyes on the ceiling and one hand under his chin as his brow furrowed in thought. “Just… What if it wasn’t one of Herne’s people that Turned Alfred?” He met America’s gaze for the first time since the latest attack. “Were there any other vampires you experimented on with scars or tattoos in some kind of symbol?”

He spoke about vampires and America’s experiments with much more ease than the others did, seeming to take everything in stride. While his tone didn’t give anything away, though, his body language did. He was turned away from America somewhat, bandaged arms away from his view.

“You think there’s more than this Order of the Hunt.” Scotland started off incredulous but then tapering off to where it didn’t sound like a question but an agreement. “God, that should have been an obvious from the start.”

“None of this should seem obvious,” America muttered under his breath. “We’re talking about freaking vampires.”

“An enemy of Herne perhaps,” France offered, ignoring America’s comment. “Who might have either Turned Alfred by accident or with intended purpose. If it’s the latter, it’d explain why Herne would send a spy, probably to find this other group for some reason. Why send a human instead of one of his own, though?”

“Easier for a human to fly across the ocean?” Scotland shrugged and scratched his head, making his curls turn to frizz. “God, it feels like we’re running in circles without our heads.”

France nodded and glanced down at England. “We should only need a couple of people watching at a time, and we still have a meeting to get to in the morning.”

Scotland closed the laptop and stood, stretching his arms up over his head. “Which means I’ll stay up, since I’m not going to the meeting anyway. I can try to find more and keep in touch with Wales about what else he’s finding out.”

“I can stay up, as well,” Japan offered, standing. “I was able to get plenty of rest on the plane.”

Scotland nodded. “The rest of you to bed. There’s not much for us to do tonight, anyway.”

Everyone murmured well wishes and sweet dreams, and France helped England up and to his room. Everything from the past several hours was rushing back, and it was all he could do just to keep his eyes open and feet moving until he reached his bed.

“ _Bonne nuit_ ,” France whispered after going to the other side of the bed. He kissed England on the forehead, but the Brit only nodded, already dozing off and tasting ash once more.


	17. Master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for sexual harassment. It doesn't go beyond kissing, but it's still against America's will.

There were heavy, clumsy footsteps clamping down the stairs, rousing Germany from deep sleep. Blackie wriggled beneath the covers, trying to make as much contact with Germany as possible in order to steal his body heat. The medium-sized mutt took up most of the space in the bed this way, but when Germany’s eyes opened, he realized Blackie wasn’t there. He wasn’t in his room back home; the bed was too small and the room too large and open—more like a den than a bedroom.

The air was humid, sticky against his skin, and Germany relaxed into the sofa bed, hearing it squeak beneath him. He was in New Orleans. America had wanted to celebrate a couple days of Mardis Gras with him; he still smelled moonpies and liquor, and when he shifted, he heard plastic beads shifting over each other.

“Bad dreams, darlin’?”

America snuggled against Germany as much as he could, his skin cold. This room wasn’t built for two people in mind, but they managed, Germany’s mouth curving into a tired smile as he wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and kissed him deeply. His tongue ran over something sharp, but he ignored it, focusing more on the fire that spread through his veins whenever he and America could find time alone.

“You act like you haven’t seen me in years,” America giggled, still tipsy from the overindulgence he celebrated every February.

It thickened his accent, and Germany moved so he was above America, moving so he pinned his arms up. The back of the sofa and their angle made it awkward, but America wasn’t complaining. His words fell to sharp breaths as Germany started moving downwards, interspersing his kisses with soft nibbles that slowly grew harder when America asked. Germany’s body grew hotter, making America feel like ice beneath him.

Worried America might be feeling ill, Germany paused.

“Are you—”

He wasn’t sure when or how it happened, but he was suddenly the one on his back, arms pinned above his head painfully and legs unresponsive.

America’s face hovered inches above his, hair brushing along Germany’s cheeks. He smiled wickedly, showing fangs too long to fit in his mouth. His eyes were red embers floating in pitch, and as Germany stared, he saw the skin at America’s temples redden and rise, blood spurting as points erupted. The points grew long and curved, nearly hitting Germany in the process before they curved back around, cupping America’s now-pointed ears.

“I’m just fine, darlin’,” he purred, and Germany shivered beneath him. “And you will be to.”

Germany rocketed out of bed just as dream-America lunged for his neck, jaw having to dislocate like a snake’s in order or his too-long fangs to sink into Germany’s flesh.

Gasping, Germany allowed himself to stand next to the twin-sized bed in the dark room as he reoriented himself.

After asking Italy, Romano, and Japan if any of them wanted to sleep, Italy told him he was the one that needed rest. He didn’t give out orders lightly, so Germany had listened and followed a grumbling Romano up the stairs.

 _“He never bit you,”_ Germany had blurted when Romano was about to enter the room he was sharing with Italy.

He wasn’t sure why he’d felt such a need to defend America, but he had.

Romano’s gaze softened for a moment, but he’d soon returned to the surly man he’d made himself to be.

 _“I forget you’re still a kid compared to the rest of us,”_ he’d sneered, and Germany bristled, jaw clenched as he swallowed back choice words. _“You think I want to think he’d done what I read in those notes of his? I’ve worked for him, lived with him, even loved him.”_ His voice had cracked, and he blinked hard and quick, glaring like he dared Germany to say something about it. _“I still like Alfred, but he’s selfish. What he wants, he reaches for, and if he can’t reach it, he finds someone to stand on. Don’t be his fucking footstool. You’ll end up with blood marks on your back.”_

Before Germany could respond, Romano had gone into his room and slammed the door behind him.

Taking deep breaths, Germany dropped onto the floor and started doing push-ups to get better hold of his bearings. Romano’s words wouldn’t leave his head.

All of them were selfish, though.

Being a nation meant being a footstool for your government and using whoever you could to push beneath you—pretend to be higher up the food chain than you were.

Germany and America both knew that better than any of them, Germany thought, with how quickly the two of them were forced to grow. Germany grew into adulthood even faster than America had, practically skipping adolescence altogether. Prussia used to joke with him that he was jealous Germany hadn’t had to go through puberty for more than a few weeks, when Prussia had suffered a cracking voice for years.

When sweat beaded along his wide forehead, Germany pushed himself back into a sitting position. He scooted back so he leaned against the nightstand, the lamp wobbling slightly at the disturbance.

Ahead of him was a door connecting this room to Italy’s and Romano’s. The build said the two rooms had once been one-in-the-same, until England renovated to make more rooms.

 _“The old man’s lonely,”_ Prussia always said before there was to be a meeting in London. For most meetings, everyone stayed at a hotel. Only England and America owned houses near the meeting places big enough to allow other nations to stay there instead.

Thinking of England brought back the image of him from hours earlier. The cuts on his face had looked shallow, but one had been close enough to his eye that blood stained the sclera. The slashes on his arm and chest were deeper, shirt torn and stained with blood and dirt. He’d kept gagging and spitting, gentlemanly demeanor dropped completely.

In front of him, America had run up the stairs, nearly barreling Canada and Japan over as he yelled for one of them to get France and Scotland. In his arms had been Romania, clutched to America’s body like a child.

Romania had been deathly pale; Germany hadn’t realized that it was possible for his skin to get whiter than it’d been before. He’d looked like wet paper stretched over bone, the blue of his veins standing out grotesquely, even more-so than the crimson dripping from the hole in his middle.

America had refused to let Germany take a look at his arm, despite the fact that Germany could tell it was broken even through the sleeve of his jacket. Carrying Romania, even with America’s superhuman strength, should have made the break worse, but America would only insist that he was fine and that it was Romania who needed help.

That stupidly-selfless person could never turn into that demon in Germany’s nightmares, but the more he told himself this, the less he believed it.

Sleep obviously a distant memory, Germany got up and found his way to his suitcase. He put on a shirt he’d packed for running in mornings before they’d leave for the meetings. It was form-fitting and allowed for free movement, which he might require if there was another “corrupted seal” (he didn’t want to bother learning what that meant) allowing a vampire or some other hell-spawned monster enter the property.

He put on jeans instead of running pants, though, since the denim would stand up better to blows he might take. He didn’t bother with shoes, though, wanting to keep his steps quiet as he exited his room.

He heard groaning come from America’s room, occupied by Romania. America was probably still awake; Germany never asked if he needed sleep anymore or not.

Romano had practically spat the comment about America’s notes. Germany hadn’t read them—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to—but he understood them. In all honesty, he would have done the same.

Vampires existing? How? What kept their bodies animated, if not a beating heart? Were their brainstems operational? How much of their frontal lobes still worked, regulating emotion and judgement? What about the hippocampus? Did they remember their lives before being Turned? How much? Was it even accurate?

Human memories were patterned sequences of activity of their neurons; remembering an event only meant remembering the last recollection of it, causing the memory to become distorted with each playthrough—how much distortion could have a number of factors attributed to it.

Nation’s memories had even more distortions, if Prussia’s drunken, half-crying tirades were to be believed. Germany still didn’t know what to make of his repeated whine of _“They don’t match! They DON’T MATCH!”_ when he’d read through one of his old journals while drunk.

What of a vampire’s memory?

But America had always been more interested in healing capabilities than the brain. His experiments had probably looked at how or if vampires scarred, what from the myths could actually harm them and to what degree, and if parts of their body parts could grow back and at what rates.

The groaning stopped, and Germany headed downstairs, finding Scotland and Japan playing cards at the table by the kitchen. America’s leather-bound binders were piled at one corner, and Japan looked up first, offering a small smile as Scotland laid down a card in the line between them.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Scotland asked without turning around.

Japan whispered something, Germany making out “nightmares.” His mouth twitched, but he didn’t argue. Japan and Italy knew how light of a sleeper Germany was and that it stemmed mostly from night terrors he’d suffered as a child. Nearly every night, he’d shot up, screaming while recalling nothing but the cold clamp of fear that threatened to freeze his veins until they shattered inside him.

He no longer had night terrors, but nightmares were still normal for him. He couldn’t recall when he’d had a good dream, really. Dreamless sleep was probably the closest he’d ever gotten to such a concept.

“I take it there has been nothing to worry about so far.” Germany went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The clock above the stove said it was nearly three in the morning. He’d gotten _some_ sleep, at least. “Is everyone else asleep?”

Japan nodded, grabbing a card from the middle line before setting another down.

At the same time, Scotland said, “America’s supposed to be watching Romania, but he’s probably accidentally hit himself with Mint’s dust and is unconscious.”

That sentence didn’t compute in Germany’s mind, but he didn’t ask for clarification. Japan looked just as confused but also didn’t press.

Instead, Germany asked, “What are you even playing?” as he brought his water to the table.

“Supposed to be Gin Rummy,” Scotland grumbled, “but neither of us know how’ta play.”

Germany snorted a laugh, and Japan handed his hand to Scotland as he gathered the cards and started shuffling.

The three started playing Crazy Eights, the fear and unease from Germany’s nightmare slowly melting away until it was only a dark spot easily pushed away.

**X X X**

Romania sunk back into unconsciousness easily, and America smirked as he set the jar back onto the nightstand. His arm was nearly fully-healed. The bruising had faded to green and yellow, and the random streaks of pain whenever he moved his arm had ebbed to an easily-ignored tingle.

Something in the back of America’s mind screamed at him to stop moving, but he was already at the window, opening it wide as it would go. With Scotland and Japan downstairs, Master would be unable to walk in through the door, but he had planned for that.

Herne’s eyes practically glowed in the dark as he appeared on the roof, seemingly out of thin air. He moved with grace no other living or unliving being could match, and he made America rise from his low bow and greeted him with a kiss. He smelled of iron and tasted like death, and his metal fangs were cold on America’s mouth and tongue. His eyelids fluttered and closed, melting into his master’s embrace. He wanted nothing more than to please him, to belong to him, mind, body, and soul.

That part in the back of his mind screamed louder, demanding release, but America ignored it, not knowing where that voice could be coming from. It felt like a person inside his head, trapped behind glass, close to shattering, and it scared him. He didn’t want that person getting out, didn’t want that voice to overpower him and force him to separate from his master.

He belonged to Herne. It was his place in life, his station, his purpose. Nothing should get in the way of that, and America would fall onto spikes of elder and yew wood before he let it happen.

“Something on your mind, pet?” Herne asked, his smoky voice making America quiver, eyes open halfway as he tried to catch his breath.

His face was flushed, and blood dribbled over his bottom lip from getting cut on the side of one of Herne’s fangs.

“I may fail,” America whispered, too scared to tell his master of that blasted voice in the back of his mind. He was a good servant. He would not let himself break.

Herne smiled, eyes sparkling in such a way that made America feel as though he were melting again.

Cupping America’s cheek, Herne’s hand cold like wet earth after a long rain, the centuries-old vampire whispered back, “My pet, you will not fail me.”

The tips of his iron claws dug into America’s cheek, just shy of drawing blood, and America understood: This was an order. He shivered, more from excitement than fear.

He would not fail. He would succeed. He would make his master proud of him. He was doing well so far. They all thought he was one of them, even with his eyes betraying the poisoned blood running beneath his flesh.

“Yes, Master,” America said, hand resting over Herne’s. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, showing his earnestness, and Herne smiled as the voice in the back of America’s mind screamed.


	18. God Hates His Job

The meeting had gone by both slowly and much too quickly.

Everyone had pretended not to notice when America disappeared during the lunch break, needing to find donors.

Germany shivered when he thought what it would be like, to kiss America again and taste blood on his breath. The sausage and mashed potatoes he’d had for lunch protested in his stomach at the thought, and he forced himself to sip the water he kept with him at each meeting. He’d refilled the bottle before leaving, following England while France and Canada agreed to keep an eye on America, who’d seemed anxious to get back to the manor once the meeting was over.

Italy had gone with them, agreeing that something felt off, even though he couldn’t place a finger on what. People generally listened to his intuition, though, even Germany. In general, he wasn’t a big believer on gut feelings, but Italy’s were usually accurate.

Scotland had left this morning to join Wales for research, and Romania was still unconscious when they left this morning. England said Romania had always been susceptible to Mint’s dust, but Germany still didn’t know what that meant and still didn’t want clarification.

He was trying to digest too much information as it was.

Romano was with Japan, checking out the other two kidnapping victims’ residences. Japan was good at slipping in and out of places unnoticed, and Romano, despite his prickly exterior, knew how to charm people even better than his brother did. He seemed to be able to pinpoint exactly what a person wanted to hear at any particular moment and seize on it, able to talk them off a cliff if he wanted.

That was probably why he typically did most of the espionage work during wartime, while Italy did the delegating or was out on the field. Despite Germany’s first impressions, he had to admit that Italy was a fierce fighter when he had to be. He didn’t have the patience or discipline Germany thought soldiers should have, though, which had led to more arguments that he’d cared for.

“What should we be looking for?” Germany asked once he and England were inside Daniel’s flat.

It was small, the door leading to a den/bedroom, an alcove to the left. A counter holding a hotplate, unplugged electric kettle, and microwave were on the counter, a dirty, tiny bathroom opposite of it. A small TV sat atop a short fridge in the corner opposite of the bed, one of those gamer chairs in front of it. There were empty beer bottles next to the chair, and when Germany looked closer, he saw “alcohol-less” typed onto the labels.

England had already filled him in on Daniel’s past vices, and it looked like the boy had been serious about not going back to them.

A game controller had been cast aside, and there were _Skyrim_ , _Undertale_ , and _Fallout_ posters on the walls. Hanging over the nightstand, though, was a bulletin board, covered with pictures of Daniel and a girl with fair, freckled skin and red curls as well as index cards that said things like _One step at a time_ and _Progress, not perfection_.

There were also quotes from things Germany vaguely remembered, like _I think there is a God; I think He hates His job_ and _Jarvis, sometimes you gotta run before you can walk_.

“I don’t know,” England finally admitted when Germany opened his mouth to ask again. He stared at the iron spike above the headboard, lifting a hand to scratch the scars on his face, still not fully healed, before letting his hand drop. “When I help with investigations, I look for hair, blood, or fingerprints. There’s databases, protocol. That’s all out the goddamn window in this case.”

His hands clenched into fists, and he moved to punch the wall before stopping himself.

“Hmm.” Germany nodded, saying nothing of England’s temper, and looked at the dust lines around the iron spike. He then got down so his cheek touched the hardwood floor, and he spotted a framed picture under the bed, behind dirty laundry he tried and failed not to smell. Did this Daniel never clean? “Here.”

He got out the framed picture and rose back to his feet as England walked over.

England took the picture from him, tracing one of the cracks in the glass. Dust moved at his touch. “That’s the girl in those other pictures, and that looks like it might be his sister.”

He pointed at the girl on Daniel’s left. She had the same brown- and gold-flecked green eyes, but her short, spiked hair was more brown than blond. She wore a wifebeater and had a tattoo sleeve, and there was another girl half in her lap with brown skin and black hair curled into a pin-up sort of style.

“It looks like the back’s been messed with,” Germany pointed out, taking the picture back and flipping the frame over. There was no dust around the small, metal bits keeping the backing in place, and as Germany held the frame, England removed the backing, inhaling deeply. He didn’t blink. Taped to the white inside of it as a message.

“That was… too easy to find,” England murmured as he and Germany read the message.

 _You’re too late_ was all it said.

It was written in blood, but Germany was more annoyed than scared or even angry. Whoever this Herne was, he was childish and seemed to have only done these kidnappings in such a way to toy with England, maybe even waste his time.

Keep him away from somewhere.

Germany thought, frozen in place, and when England met his eye, realization dawned on him as he reached the same conclusion.

“Call Japan,” England said, already heading for the door, dropping the frame backing on the way.

Germany tossed the picture onto the bed and took his cellphone out of his pocket.

Japan picked up after the first ring.

“We found a message—”

Germany cut him off as he and England closed the flat’s door behind him. He tasted bile as he said, “We probably found the same message. Go back to the mansion. Italy, Canada, France, and Romania could be in danger.”

**X X X**

“Well.” America grinned as blood sprayed from his mouth with a cough, hands up as he feigned surrender. More stained his shirt and tan blazer. “That did not take long at all.”

Of any of them, America least expected Italy to be the one to shoot him in the chest. His aim had been off, though, the bullet hitting his lung instead of his heart.

They were outside near the shed, Italy having lured America out by saying they should check the seals again while it was day.

France, the one America _had_ expected to be the most suspicious, merely stood behind Italy, looking shocked. His face was pale, and his expression would have made America laugh if his attention were not trained on Italy.

“You’re too proud to talk about how you were Turned in front of all of us,” Italy said, voice flat as his amber eyes. “You’d never talk about how scared you were unless you were hiding something.”

France’s eyes widened even more; he couldn’t seem to believe how he hadn’t come to that same realization earlier.

So much for “big brother who knows everyone’s heart.” America felt like laughing.

The bullet wound was already healing, trapping the shrapnel inside. It was more painful than getting shot, making America tremble, and his throat throbbed as his Hunger grew and drowned out that screaming voice in the back of his head.

America was trying to think of why Italy waited until now to shoot him, instead of telling everyone his suspicion and having them lock America up somewhere. Even with his senses, agility, and strength, he’d be outnumbered.

Herne, even, needed to plan carefully.

Italy never had been the best at planning—he’d always left that up to others.

But this felt calculated somehow.

Heart pounding and Hunger growling inside him, America faked left and leapt right. He heard the loud _pop_ of the gun but didn’t feel the bullet graze his forearm, his sleeve taking the brunt of the blow. Italy swore and yelled at France, who ran towards England’s bedroom, the sitting area’s window wide open.

It wouldn’t be long before Canada arrived, too, and he could weave through a forest just as easily as America could.

America was in the woods, two bullets hitting trees and a third taking a piece of his ear. He hissed as blood ran down the side of his face, but he never slowed, even as he peeled off his blazer. He smelled barely and silver shavings and chucked the blazer hard as he could in that direction. From what he remembered about caring for Orchid, unicorns seemed to get along mainly by smell, so hopefully the blood on the blazer would slow down the overrated horse.

Fire hit leaves of a nearby tree, and America smelled that damn flying rabbit. Its “lasers” (more like glorified sparks) were nowhere near as powerful as its sleeping dust, but the thing had tired itself out after keeping America unconscious, based on what he heard England say to Scotland when the rabbit made more dust to keep Romania under.

There were many more fey to attend with, though, and this was their element. England had been careful about keeping as little iron around the property as he could afford, so as not to let his friends be weakened. They’d also been pissed at America for biting England, so they’d probably been waiting for just this sort of opportunity.

America wouldn’t be surprised if they’d already known about his allegiance to Herne, but Herne had been prepared for this sort of situation.

America had nothing to fear.

He was the apex predator here.

Another shot rang out, hitting the tree America rounded, as if to remind him that predator or not, he was currently the hunted.

“Alfred!” Canada shouted. “Stop!”

As though this were some misunderstanding, and he could talk America back to his senses. He almost laughed.

“He’ll head for water!” France shouted, far but closing the gap too quickly for comfort.

The bullet shards inside America’s chest were slowing him down more than he liked. Italy had chosen his weapon well. If the bullet had stayed intact and left an exit wound, America would have healed faster and more completely. Now he was going to have to open himself up again later to get the shards out, unless he wanted to wait the weeks it would take for his body to push them out itself.

When the other nations generally thought of America’s military, the Air Force typically popped into mind first.

They forgot the strength of his navy, or how America had spend a good deal of his late childhood and adolescence pirating. He was a strong swimmer, and despite the instincts of his Hunger growling and hissing at the thought of making contact with water, soon as America smelled the nearby river, he took a sharp left and zig-zagged through the trees, narrowly dodging two more bullets and the damn rabbit’s fireballs.

He smelled dill and marshmallow-covered mint and ducked, rolling over his arm and back, flesh stinging as the bullet wound reopened. Blood from his halved ear made his hair stick down to his face and glasses, blood running into his eye. Still, he ran, ripping off his shirt and barely slowing to kick off his shoes as he dove, the hitting brackish water just as needles of pure ice stabbed his ankles and sunk into his thighs and calves.

He’d smelled meadowsweet, crushed pine needles, and cinnamon right before hitting the water. Whatever attacked him must have been waiting nearby soon as France shouted his warning, knowing this river was the closest source of water deep enough to use for escape.

The ice spread over America’s legs the deeper he went, and his glasses threatened to leave his face completely. He let them slip off and sink to the mud; he wasn’t going to need them anymore.

The ice cracked as America kicked away his shoes and let the current carry him down, down, down where he could wait for his master.

Everything was in place. Earlier than expected or liked, but a plan that didn’t allow for flexibility was no plan at all.

All would be as Herne had promised.

America would see to it.


	19. Puppet

Canada didn’t want to believe it. He wanted shout at France and Italy that they were mistaken, wrong.

But he knew they weren’t.

That corrupted seal.

Something had to have happened then. Herne slipped through, hypnotized America maybe.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that right now, America was an enemy—a dangerous one.

When he reached the river, still-bloody axe still in hand, France was talking to someone or something Canada couldn’t see, and Italy was nowhere to be seen—until Canada caught a glimpse of copper hair break the water’s surface several meters downriver before Italy submerged again. He didn’t see America, but he’d clocked him at holding his breath underwater for eight minutes before, and there was no telling how better he could hold his breath now that he was a vampire.

France’s words were too quick to follow and too different from Quebec French for Canada to understand unless he paid attention. Instead, he ran downriver, following where he’d last spotted Italy. He was a strong swimmer, Netherlands once telling him (grudgingly) that Italy had beaten him in swimming matches several times before.

If someone could match America’s speed in the water, he might be their best bet.

The muddy bank gave way to gravel, then hard rock, and Canada didn’t miss a step jumping from the tall grass to the rock, huffing as he ran. His knuckles turned white from grasping the axe’s handle so tight, and he nearly beamed himself in the back with it when he used his arm to push his glasses back up into place.

The river water was dark and murky, but it wasn’t long before Canada passed Italy’s copper head and pastel-colored shirt, and just ahead was disturbed mud swirling.

Everything slowed down yet seemed to happen all at once.

America’s legs were wrapped around Italy’s middle, and he flipped over onto his back as he yanked the smaller man closer. He bit down hard on Italy’s neck, hands clasped around Italy’s wrists, and something fell from Italy’s hand as Canada leapt into the water.

It hit him hard and cold, already swinging the axe as water and mud splashed around them.

America screamed, though the axe never hit him as he shoved Italy away and swam for the other side of the river.

Without speaking, Canada and Italy went after him, though Italy huffed and puffed as he pressed a hand against the fang wounds in his neck. Blood gushed around his fingers, and he fell back.

Canada ignored him as he forced himself to gain speed, weaving around trees, jumping and ducking as though he knew the woods as well as one of his own.

The gap between him and America was closing. Whatever had just happened in the river was slowing him down, and those ice crystals (fairy magic?) breaking away from his drenched slacks weren’t helping him.

Soon, they were in a large clearing, and America slid to a stop, hunched and pale and bleeding. He bared his fangs, and his pupils were so thin that Canada couldn’t make them out from this distance. The red seemed to be growing, too, the blue eyes he was familiar with having receded to a ring around the crimson irises.

Texas was gone, too.

Canada realized he’d stopped running and was standing about two meters away from America—if he even was America anymore.

He now looked like just any vampire wearing his clothes and sharing the same face.

Not even the same face. That animalistic expression was not one Canada could ever see his brother wearing.

This wasn’t America. This was Herne’s puppet, possessing him.

The realization steeled his nerves, and he scowled, glasses slipping down his nose as he lunged forward, missing the monster by inches.

“Alfred!” Canada gasped, dancing away from the puppet’s lunge. He looked like a rabid animal, growling as his face grew paler and his nostrils flared—smelling a cut on Canada’s arm he hadn’t realized was there, likely from the rock. “Please!” He dodged again and struck, aiming with the blunt side of the axe. It only hit hair as Alfred ducked and twisted away. “You have to fight him! I know you can! You can do it! Please!” He danced away, nearly catching one of the puppet’s knees with the axe. “ _You don’t want to do this_!”

The way the puppet’s mouth twisted into a grin chilled Canada more than the river had.

More than any of his winters ever had.

America’s voice, twisted by whatever shadow was inside of him rose like smoke: “You greatly underestimate just how little you mean to me.”

Canada’s expression flattened, and his heart hardened as he grasped the axe’s handle more tightly. His knuckles turned white, and America laughed as he danced away, expression mockingly similar to the one Canada knew so well.

So much like the way he laughed when the two of them had pulled pranks on England as kids.

So much like the way he laughed while telling stories to bring soldiers’ spirits up.

So much like the America Canada knew and loved and wanted back.

Rage spread through him, pulsing hot, cold, hot, cold. This movements didn’t feel like his own as he lunged, dodged, kicked, danced, and swung.

He ducked America’s roundhouse and swung the axe around at the same time as he turned away, clipping America’s heel. The flesh dangled on, and America roared with pain. It was a sound that in no way sounded human, and his face contorted back to that animalistic expression as he managed to gasp Canada’s hair, ignoring the slash to his chest as Canada dropped the axe in surprise. His only satisfaction was that it landed on America’s hurt foot.

Spittle sprayed Canada’s face as the vampire hissed, and clouds darkened above as they blotted out the sun.

Black stars circled Canada’s vision, and his fist met America’s ear as a blow to the back of his head made the stars explode.

His movements were sluggish, and he only hit air, America laughing that laugh Canada once loved and now hated.

The laugh cut off suddenly at a sharp word, the voice cold and domineering and making chills slip down Canada’s spine.

Twin needle stabs punctured the side of his neck, and the world faded away.

**X X X**

The car ride made it even more obvious that there was something was wrong with England. So much that Germany was glad he’d insisted on sitting up front while he tried Italy’s cellphone, then Canada’s, then France’s. None of them were answering, and anxiety grew in Germany’s chest—a writing thing covered in barbs that hooked on whatever it could.

The feeling was itchy and heavy and cold, and it made Germany’s heart world double-time as he glanced in the rearview mirror to see England bouncing his leg and cross and uncross his arms over and over. His hair was messier than usual from him running his fingers through it and scratching above his ears and above his neck.

Worst yet, those cuts on his face were still bright pink, and when Germany looked close, he could make out red and white tracks like lightning scars.

They knew Herne wanted England, and that corrupted seal, they now greatly suspected, had been a ruse by America, who must have fallen under Herne’s mind control abilities somehow.

The thought made the prickly ball of anxiety flash to cold and bounce on Germany’s stomach. Its touch made his stomach turn inside-out, and Germany swallowed, tasting bile again.

Romania had been hit worst to keep him from being able to smell or sense or whatever it was he could do what was happened to England, and those cuts on England had been calculated. He and America had said the vampire turned to dust soon as England stabbed it with that magicked dagger of his, but what consequences could await for getting vampire ash into an open wound?

Turning, as far as America had said, resulted from getting bitten and then drinking vampire blood, but could it also happen with other exchanges of bodily fluid or body parts in general, even burned?

This made Germany’s head hurt.

All he knew was that something was most definitely wrong with England, France, Canada, and Italy weren’t answering their phones, and Herne enjoyed mind games above practicality. He liked to gloat, to lead clues only so it showed his brilliance and power.

They needed to make his pride his downfall.

As the driver wished them a good day, Germany shoved more money than had been earned at him and got out. England scrambled out soon after, taking off his blazer. He was starting to sweat now, and when Germany stopped to ask how he was feeling, England shot him a look that made the words shrivel and die on Germany’s tongue.

“We’re running out of time for any pleasantries and regards,” he reminded, and Germany gave a sharp nod that England didn’t see as he started grumbling about the fey not being around like they should be.

Gunshots rang out in the forest, far beyond where those seals had been hung.

Germany discarded his jacket as well as he ran, tie following soon after. He wished he’d put on shoes better for running, but there wasn’t time for a change.

France met up with them before they reached the forest edge.

“Arthur!” His arm hooked around England’s, spinning him around to a stop.

Germany did not stop to listen to whatever France wanted to say to him, despite the logical side of his brain telling him he needed as much information as he could gather before plowing forward. Instinct, though, screamed at him to move, and that was what he listened to.

France shouted after him, but Germany only picked up speed.

**X X X**

France looked torn between going after Germany and staying to say whatever it was he wanted to say to England.

To get this over faster, England wrenched his arm out of his boyfriend’s grip and growled, “ _What_?”

He winced at the sound of his voice. It sounded more guttural, and there were already too many things happening at once. He did _not_ wish to even consider that he could be Turning.

“Have you not been listening to them at all?” France’s eyebrows nearly met in the middle, but his eyes were wide with fear, like he already knew the answer but hoped he was wrong.

“Listening to whom?” England snapped, not caring much for policing his tone at the moment. “The fey? They aren’t around. They must….”

The burning anger in him extinguished in the ice of fear.

“They…” His voice was barely more than a breath. A breath that felt to be his last as fear’s ice crystalized around his lungs, immobilizing them.

The fey weren’t gone.

England had lost his Sight.

“Inside.” France’s eyes narrowed, determination suppressing whatever fear he’d been feeling earlier. “Now.”

England could do nothing except allow France to lead him into the manor and down the stairs. He vaguely heard France bark something at someone’s—Romano’s? Italy’s? Canada’s? England couldn’t tell with the black stars crowding his vision and the roar of his heart beating in his ears—comment. Only the bone-deep knowledge of his home let him know that they were in the basement, passing the office and potions room.

After that, however, his internal map grew fuzzy, and he managed to capture enough air to lessen the roar in his ears. France had been speaking—or babbling, as he was wont to do when anxious.

“… seems that even this may not work with him now.” France’s voice hiccupped, and he paused. “So you must take it. I only fear he…”

This? It? Him? He?

What on Earth was England blathering—

The demon. England’s vision cleared enough to show him the long hallway, the floor slowly descending and temperature dropping with each step. The scars on his cheek, arm, and chest were the only parts of him still hot, the feeling scattering just beneath his flesh like lightning. His heart still beat, but it felt hollow in his chest.

“Arthur.”

England realized when France spoke that he’d stopped.

“Francis,” England said in a flat voice that made his boyfriend wince more than when they were screaming at one-another, “I refuse to have anything to do with something that _demon_ magic brought into being.”

“Arth—”

“ _No_.” The word was more of a growl than his voice.

“And let _this_ ”—France motioned to England’s scars as his voice rose—“take over?!”

England didn’t have a response to that—not a good one, anyway. He only growled as he backed up, hitting the wall as he grasped both sides of his head. The heat spread once more, and he shook as pain struck his teeth, throat, and chest. His legs failed him, arms grabbing him from one side to keep him propped up.

“Arthur, let me help—”

It was like someone else had taken over his body, but England knew it was him, was painfully aware it was him, as his still-forming fangs sunk into France’s neck.

The sudden blow to the side of his head was a blessing, and his last thought before darkness took him was, _I’ll hand whatever demon my soul myself before I hurt Francis again_.


	20. Not Over Yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW Sexual harassment

America’s heart pounded as Herne licked Canada’s blood off his lip. His iron claws dug painfully into America’s sides as Herne’s tongue moved past America’s lips and ran over his teeth, the kiss deepening, hungry, possessive.

The voice in the back of America’s mind screamed, and it felt like cracks were forming in that glass wall keeping it separate from him.

He ran his fingers up into Herne’s rose gold curls, stopping just shy of his iron crown, ignoring the voice best he could as he focused on his master. He was so good to him, so caring, so protective.

He’d nearly failed, first letting Italy shoot him, then nearly getting stabbed with that syringe filled with garlic tonic.

Even Italy’s blood had tasted of garlic, burning America’s lips and tongue soon as he bit into his neck. He would have needed to have been eating nothing but garlic all day for his blood to have tasted as strong as it had. It wouldn’t surprise him whatsoever if that was the case.

So now he still had bullet shards in his chest, he couldn’t put any weight on his right foot, and he was still weak from just one swallow of Italy’s blood, even after nearly draining Canada completely.

The nation had been dropped unceremoniously when Herne ordered him to stop drinking, the axe cast away.

“Rest now, my pet,” Herne whispered after breaking the kiss. “Don’t fret about the fey. The others will have their wings full.”

His almond-shaped pupils widened, and America felt as though he were falling. His body buzzed with need, delicious need to praise and please and obey. He nodded dumbly, that voice in the back of his mind swallowed by fog.

He was curled up inside a hollow tree before he realized he’d moved. He curled one leg up so his knee was higher than his head, foot pressed against his arm so that the nearly-severed heel was pressed into place. It stung like hell, but the cold of the ice helped slightly. The rest of the ice was melting away, bringing more pulses of hot, stinging pain as it hit America’s heel. If it had just been flesh, it wouldn’t hurt so bad, but Canada had cut through bone, too. That would take longer to heal, and it wouldn’t feel good.

Locks of the offender’s corn silk hair was in his view; as were Herne’s long legs as he sauntered deeper in to the forest. America watched his master go, heat rising to his cheeks as his heart seemed to hum in his throat.

The Wild Hunt would soon begin.

A corner of America’s mouth quirked upwards, but it fell soon as he heard someone letting out a staccato beat-like groan.

“Al…” His voice was barely more than a breath.

How was he still conscious?! America bit back a growl, nails digging into the dirt. The fog cleared enough for that voice in the back of his mind to let out a cheer; America ground his teeth until his fangs cut his bottom lip.

“It’s…” Canada’s voice shuttered. “Ifor’ve… oo… I l’v… oo…”

_I forgive you. I love you._

The shuttering stopped, and he went silent. America, driven by something he didn’t understand shifted until the nation’s face was in view. Pain screamed from his foot, but he ignored it and watched until he saw the flare of Canada’s nostrils. He was only unconscious his body shutting down temporarily as his body healed.

America’s own body felt as though it were close to shutting down. The sun had been out here and there throughout the day, and while it didn’t burn him, being in direct contact of the rays suctioned energy after a while. Only when he was too Hungry did he burn, and he’d been good. He fed when Herne allowed it, when he was supposed to. He was of little use otherwise, left mindless and little more than a liability better discarded.

He would not become a liability; he would not fail.

He was Herne’s pet, his chosen one. His only choice was to succeed.

It felt like seconds later, but when America’s eyes opened, the darkness told him it was hours later.

What had wakened him?

It wasn’t the cramping in his legs, and the lightning strike-like pangs rising up his leg as his foot healed had become something akin to white noise as he’d fallen asleep. His arms were numb, but it wasn’t that, either.

Herne had promised he would take care of the fey, so it couldn’t be them. Herne was a god that punished oath-breakers without mercy; he would never go back on his word.

If there was anything those that dwelled Below and In-between could agree on, it was that word was good as law.

If only humans and their Parent Above could come to the same agreement. Maybe such divisions wouldn’t have been necessary.

Bark scraped, and twigs snapped.

Pause.

Leaves rustled and crunched.

Pause.

Breath. Breath.

“ _Vater unser im Himmel, / geheiligt werde dein Name…_ ”

 _The Lord’s Prayer_ , America thought first. Then: _That’s Germany’s voice_.

America wanted to laugh. The feeling bubbled up his throat, stopping halfway as he tried to swallow it down again.

“… _Und vergib uns unsere Schuld, / wie auch wir vergeben unsern Schuldigern_ —Matthew!”

America smirked as Germany lowered to pick up Canada, muttering awkward-sounding platitudes in a mixture of German and English.

He never even noticed America was there.

He was so close, so oblivious. It would be _incredibly_ easy to leap out and attack, sink his fangs into his large, muscled neck, feel his hot blood flow over his tongue and bleed down his throat.

The smoldering pine and frankincense smell of Germany’s anger rose, twisting around the hoppy smell of shock and cold earth-covered sugar beets that marked his fear. The smells roared against a sharp, bitter scent of despair or desperation or disgust—too many emotions warred and spun and waltzed, making America dizzy and cooing his Hunger back into the forefront of his mind.

He didn’t move, though, much as he wanted to, much as he wanted to pin Germany down and drink in his scent. He imagined keeping him as his own pet, keeping him locked away in one of the towers of Germany’s fairytales. His fangs ached, fully extended and mouth opened as he tried not to pant.

His face was red and hot, and the heat slowly spread throughout his body, electrifying the lower it got.

But he remained still, never giving himself away as Germany ran off best he could with Canada thrown over one shoulder.

Shaking from barely-contained Hunger and want, America’s mind screamed, _Mine! He’s mine! He’s mine! He’s mine! He’s mine!_

Even that damnable voice in the back of America’s mind screamed it, though the cadence and tone differed in a way America could not readily recognize.

He went back to sleep, albeit uneasily now.

The Hunt would commence soon, and America needed to be fully-healed by then.

He could claim Germany later. Surely, Herne would allow him a pet of his own.

**X X X**

France’s fingers brushed over the bandage as he pushed his hair back. The wounds weren’t deep. England’s canines had sharpened, but they weren’t long. Not yet.

England now lay in his bed, thanks to Japan and Romano helping France carry him here—and “accidentally” dropping him on the stairs, much to France’s chagrin—and France was alone with him. If Italy hadn’t been hurt, Romano might have stayed. France might not be one of his favorite people, but he tolerated him enough to feel protective.

Sighing loudly, France’s leg bounced. He’d pulled up the chair by the cot Scotland had occupied while here next to the large bed, and the curtains were drawn back. The window was halfway closed now, and thunder rumbled in the distance, as though God wanted to set the mood. 

Dramatic as always.

England stirred, and France grabbed the vial from the nightstand. The glass was black and angled—obsidian, not glass, when France inspected it more closely. The stopper didn’t look or feel like cork, but France dropped it onto the hardwood floor before he could spend any time pondering over just what it was.

The potion’s smell was potent enough that France’s nose wrinkled; he tried not to think on what it smelled like.

“Wha—?”

“Drink.” France unceremoniously pressed the vial’s opening into England’s mouth and cradled England’s head with his other hand. “We don’t have much time, and you’ll need your strength.”

He had no clue what else might happen after England drank the potion. Maybe he’d fall into unconsciousness for days or even weeks. Maybe he’d be filled with manic energy. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

All France knew was that the potion would absorb the vampire venom—or whatever it could be called—and essentially reverse the Turn. Not completely. According to the demon, no vampire could be Turned back completely, but whoever drank the potion would return close enough to human that the leftover side-effects could be easily managed.

The demon never said America would drink the potion, though. France hadn’t noticed that until he saw England twitching the way he was, teeth bared like he was ready to bite the nearest person or animal. When he kept ignoring the fey’s prodding, France knew, and he knew the _deus ex machina_ he’d promised America would never be his to have.

It was England’s.

The demon couldn’t help America; France prayed God would.

“There.” France’s voice was a breath as he pulled the vial back. Tears pricked his eyes, and he let them fall as he practically fell to hold England close and still as he convulsed. “You’re okay. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

All lessons of what to do when someone went into a seizure left France’s mind. All he could think of was his reunion with England and losing Alfred forever.

Alfred. For France remembered him, but he might not for long.

He cried harder, shaking nearly as much as England as he held him closer than before. Every emotion that had been building up behind his carefully-laid walls burst through and wracked through him, leaving him unable to breathe or think.

_“Do we just go back to Eden?”_

_Yes_ , France wanted to say. _Yes, you’ll go back to Eden. You’ll live in Paradise, cut off from the rest of the world, cut off from sin and pain and hate and chains. You’ll be free. Finally, you’ll be free._

But if nations could just be replaced, could they possibly have souls to move on?

England coughed and gagged, and France drew back, still shaking but no longer sobbing. He held his breath, feeling lightheaded. His hands reached to touch either side of England’s face. The scars were still there, maybe never to leave his porcelain skin, and his canines were still sharp.

His eyes were the same emerald green France had always known, and he allowed himself a shaky smile.

“How do you feel?” France asked—or thought he asked. He couldn’t feel himself breathing, and black stars edged his vision.

France flinched and gasped as England’s fingers ran over the bandage on France’s neck. His mouth pinched in a frown, skin paling to where his veins and the dark circles under his eyes stood out even more, and his eyes shone with regret.

“I’m fine,” France hiccupped, and England squeezed his eyes shut.

Brow furrowed, England moved to draw France up into a tight hug. He didn’t feel any stronger than usual, and he wasn’t overheated anymore—and, even better, his heart was beating.

Their kiss was hungry and primal, filled with guilt and love and apology and relief and every pent-up emotion they’d been feeling these past couple days now released in a deluge being funneled in the only way they knew how when together.

France felt heat wash through him as he found himself on his back, gasping and groaning and whispering oaths and demands. Demands that made England smirk against his trailing kisses, which snaked lower and lower. The trail would slow and then double-back on itself, making France growl as though he’d been the one about to Turn.

Thunder and the lights cutting out forced them to part, both swearing when they found rain soaking the floor and curtains.

England shut the window, France unable to get up just yet. He was still gasping, feeling a manic laugh skittering through his throat and always stopping just before reaching his mouth.

The two jumped when a door slammed open and then shut again, Germany yelling about Canada being hurt.

Slammed back into the present, France leaped out of bed, buttoning his pants and grabbing his shirt at the same time.

England grabbed his hand just before he reached the door, stopping him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, all his usual walls fallen.

He used to say that his soul was Jericho while France’s soul sang with the power of Joshua’s trumpets.

When that vulnerable look crossed England’s face, though—when his voice filled with emotion he shared with no one else—France felt the metaphor was backwards. It was _his_ walls that came tumbling down, and he never wanted it to be any other way.

“I’d make the same choice every time,” France whispered back, allowing a chaste kiss on England’s lips. “Now let’s go. The night isn’t quite over yet.”


	21. Setting the Battlefield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could have been condensed and combined with the next chapter, but I didn't feel like rewriting anything. So here's a filler.

Candles cast England’s room in dim light. White candles for purity, black for protection, and red for blood—the blood of life and preserving said life.

According to England, anyway, before he grumbled something about Norway being better at candle and fire magic.

Canada was in no state to fight, and Romania still wasn’t either. When America had been “checking up” on him, he’d dumped enough of that Mint dust on him to put a human into a permanent coma, according to England. He’d be up in a few days normally and a few hours with magical help.

France was downstairs talking to the fey now that England reportedly couldn’t see or hear them anymore—a fact that had made England’s usual cool demeanor slip to reveal an expression akin to someone witnessing the death of a loved one.

Germany couldn’t empathize, and sympathy was too far to reach for now. All he could focus on was setting Canada down onto England’s bed, which had been moved away from the wall. England was going around the room with a smoldering bundle of mugwort and juniper, and a bundle of hawthorn sticks tied with twine was hung above the window. Hanging down from the bundle were pieces of garlic and dried wolfsbane. Romano wore latex gloves while handling it and cast them away into the waste basket (careful not to let the outer part of the gloves touch his skin) once the bundle was up.

“This feels stupid,” he grumbled.

Not looking at him as he helped Italy and Japan lower Romania onto the bed next to Canada, France retorted, “There are God-knows-how-many-vampires outside preparing for God-knows-what, and one of them has brainwashed America.” He offered a sympathetic glance when Germany winced. “All of this feels stupid.” He turned towards the nightstand and nodded. “Arthur, run that smoke over the door again before it runs out. Holly says there’s weak spots in the shield.”

Germany tried looking at the nightstand, but he saw nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw England’s shoulders hunch, but he immediately straightened his back and nodded. His march to the door looked too wooden, and Japan shared a glance with Italy and Germany. He’d mentioned England speaking to people who weren’t there when visiting his home and complaining of children running around and laughing when there were none. Japan had worried stress had been addling England’s mind, but after everything that had happened, both knew England really _had_ seen and heard those things.

He wouldn’t be able to anymore, though. Japan never talked about having seen and heard spirits and such when he was younger, but China had mentioned Japan speaking to them as a child. Germany wondered if Japan was thinking about when he first woke up and realized his friends were gone, how he eventually convinced himself they’d never existed in the first place.

“They’ll be safe?” Romano asked, incredulous.

Eyes on whatever was on the nightstand, France grimaced. “Yes, they’ll be safe. Only five fey can stay here with them on top of the protective spells”—the hitch in his voice portrayed the internal war of whether or not to trust some smoke and sticks—“because the rest are out searching for Herne and his Order. Their numbers aren’t exhaust—”

A low sound bellowed in the distance, coming from the direction of the river Germany saw earlier. It sounded like some kind of horn, and Germany remembered what Scotland had said about the name Herne when they first found out about him.

In the myths, Herne was a hunter, leading the wild hunt. He was god or fey, depending on who told the tale, and America said he’d met Wiccan citizens who worshiped Herne as an aspect of their God, often called the Horned God.

 _You’re too late_ the note in Daniel’s flat had read, and something cold and hard in Germany’s gut told him it wasn’t talking about Daniel or the other kidnapped victims.

“Is that him?” Italy asked.

Like France, he wore a bandage on his neck, and two of his fingers on his right hand were broken from America forcing him to drop the syringe he’d prepared earlier today. Overall, though, he was okay, and despite the fear lighting up his golden-brown eyes, he looked ready to fight.

Everyone was silent for a beat, and then Japan broke the silence:

“If he is drawing us out, he has a plan. We need one, too, and we must make it quickly.”

“If he was spying on America and was the one that Turned him,” said England, “then he’s been planning this for a long time.”

The horn blew again.

Was America out there?

Germany felt himself bouncing on his feet and earned a warning look from Italy. Suddenly, they were in opposite places; the world had been turned on its head.

“Planning _what_ , though?” Romano questioned, still standing by the window.

The towels used to mop up the rainwater earlier were still on the floor, and the bookcase had needed to be moved, books on the cot and out in the den, drying. Romano stood atop the towels, shoulders hunched, and arms crossed over his chest. The more scared he got, the angrier he got, the two emotions clear as day on his face.

Everyone was quiet again, making Canada’s and Romania’s breathing seem all the louder.

Canada had been cleaned and redressed in a sweatshirt and cotton pants in his suitcase, and Romania had been cleaned and redressed as well, dressed in some of England’s track pants and T-shirt, since Romania had packed only blood packs (now empty) before hopping on a plane to London.

Kumajiro whined outside the door, scratching at the wood, but England was loath to let him inside just yet. While trained and usually docile, the ever-cub got panicky when Canada was hurt.

Last year, America told Germany about the time a poacher Canada was hunting shot him in the chest with a buck shot, and Canada then had to keep Kumajiro locked in the house after he mauled the poacher to death.

“He wants to hunt,” Italy finally replied. “He calls himself Herne, and that’s the name of some hunter god in your mythology, right?”

He faced England, who shrugged and sighed.

“Possibly.” He pushed his hair back from his face and looked at Canada with a pained look on his face. “The earliest mention of Herne is _Merry Wives of Windsor_ , and I don’t remember enough of the local legends of the area around Windsor Forest to know how much of the legends Shakespeare used. Herne _could_ have been taken from a title of Woden, or Odin, but…” He sighed and pushed his hair back again. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that there _could_ be a connection, and this goddamn Herne is _using_ that connection.”

A third horn blast sounded, closer.

“He wants to be a god,” France murmured, hands on the edge of the nightstand and knuckles white. It seemed to be holding him up, and Germany worried the table might topple from the strain. “He built this Order of vampires willing to be branded. Willing to die just to test our strength. He’s probably worshiped by them. We know his brainwashing powers faded from those humans he used”—he looked away sharply when hope shone in Germany’s eyes—“but we have no idea how long those powers may last on vampires. For all we know, his control lasts indefinitely.”

Hope dulled but didn’t die.

America wasn’t a full vampire. His heart beat. He’d blushed and cried. He was as alive as Germany was, and furthermore, he was a nation first. A powerful one. He couldn’t just fall under the control of some animated corpse that wanted to play God.

He _couldn’t_.

“So, this is just a game for him?” Japan asked, calm exterior cracking. His fury underneath peeked through, but his expression managed to remain neutral. “If he has been planning this ‘hunt’ for so long, then he knew we would all be here.”

“He wants to conquer,” France whispered. The tone said this was supposed to remain a thought, and he let England pull him up and away, towards one of the chairs.

“So, he knows we’re nations,” Romano grumbled, but it sounded like he already knew that. Still, he stared out the window. “And I’m guessing we can’t trust those seals anymore.”

England shook his head. “Probably not. I’ve never heard of mind-control powers on par with what Herne has shown. We need to be ready for anything.”

Lightning flashed, close enough to light up the room briefly, and thunder boomed simultaneously.

“Even if the seals are useless,” said Romano, “we can’t just leave the property. We’ll be sitting ducks out there. They’re probably no strangers to running around forests.”

“I have a sniper in the basement,” England mused, staring at the floor as he thought. “Only a quarter-box of ammo, however.” He looked at Canada again, who was the best sharpshooter out of all of them. England and America tied for second however (when Finland wasn’t here). “I’ll station myself on the roof. I had a small platform built when I had the manor renovated. F-for when… when Mabyn visited from Dylan’s place.”

Dylan was Wales’s human name, and if it was an open spot on the roof, Germany guessed Mabyn might be a dragon.

He didn’t like that his logical thinking was now including types of mythological creatures, but that was what the past couple days—good _God_ was that only how much time had passed?!—had led to.

“Wish we could build a bonfire.” Romano’s tone was somewhere between a sigh and snap.

“The dining room has a large enough fireplace,” France pointed out, attempting to be optimistic. That was usually his place, along with Italy. They were supposed to be the optimistic ones, finding slivers of light amongst the dark clouds.

At that thought, lightning flashed again, thunder loud enough to make the window tremble. Germany walked over towards the window, standing just behind Romano as he quipped, “And what? Just lead them into the fireplace one by one?”

“We have few options,” Germany pointed out, and Italy said at the same time, “Better to have the fire, just in case.”

“They’re getting closer,” France said, pushing himself out of the chair. “Germany, with Canada… asleep”—he coughed—“you’re our best camper. How quickly can you start the fire.”

“Quick enough,” Germany replied as he turned to meet France’s eyes. “I suggest filling the electric kettle. If fire hurts them, the heat of boiling water could be enough to cause a distraction.”

“We might as well turn the oven on, too,” Romano half-scoffed as he finally turned away from the window. “Hansel and Gretel their asses.” His smirk held no humor and was tired, but Italy allowed a smile as well.

“Let’s be quick about this, then.” England sighed heavily. “I’m offering my permission to destroy my house for Herne’s head.”


	22. Herne's Heart

America would have likened the manor to a set for a _Home Alone_ sequel.

Thinking that made Germany’s heart clench, but he trudged on.

England was already on the roof, and his three electric kettles were boiling—two in the kitchen and one in the den.

Curtains had been hung over the doors, and the drapes had been drawn across the windows. Only Italy and Romano carried holy water around with them, all of it used to wet the thin, muslin curtains hung in front of the doors. France mixed saltwater with juniper, St. John’s wort, and vervain and soaked all the curtains with it as Germany stoked the fire in the dining room.

Being the fastest, Italy and Romano had run out into the rain to the shed to retrieve weapons. They’d returned with two axes, a mattock, a garden fork, a root cutter, and three trowels (one rusted). Japan and France had stood outside armed with England’s two handguns, but other than the rain and thunder, all had been silent.

The large table had been put up in the foyer, angled so the vampires would either have to jump over it to reach the den or go into the dining room. There were black, white, and red candles in the den and kitchen, and Japan, Italy, and Romano were making quick work of the table and chairs in the breakfast nook.

It couldn’t be easy with the chisels and wedges sharpened into axes from a wood-crafting kit in England’s office in the basement, but they were managing. The stakes didn’t have to be pretty or perfect; they just needed to be sharp enough to break through flesh. The table and chairs were redwood, which England had claimed wasn’t one of the woods that could kill a vampire, but leaving the stake in the heart could stun them long enough for someone else to swing their axe.

Everything happened at once.

One shot from the roof.

Thunder.

Screams as the doors splintered and vampires hit the holy water curtains.

Glass shattered. Gunshot. Gunshot. Or echo.

The axe in Germany’s hand was stopped by the advancing vampire’s spine. It gurgled a pained howl.

Its head ended up in the fireplace; Germany couldn’t recall how but was still moving.

More blood, some black, some brown, some red. Dust as France's borrowed enchanted dagger found home in a vampire's heart.

Swearing, hissing, shouts in a myriad of languages.

Swing and miss, pain, swearing, hitting the ground at Italy’s shout.

More screams and drops of boiling water hitting Germany’s back.

Another head in the fireplace, its eyeballs growing and popping as the fire tore through its flesh faster than it would normal flesh.

“Don’t let them lure you outside!” someone—France?—shouted as another gunshot rang out.

Just as he said it, Japan got thrown outside through the wide back window; Italy screamed as he went after him, shoving a wooden stake through one vampire in the process. Romano was thrown against a wall, and Germany dodged and rolled again, trying to keep an eye on where his axe was as France shouted a series of swear words—he’d been backed into the fireplace himself, losing a chunk of hair and a patch of his shirt.

There was too much chaos.

There couldn’t be more than a half-dozen vampires still inside the house, but with their speed and agility, it felt as though there were hundreds. They didn’t seem to care about their two fallen comrades, and all wore wide grins that seemed to split their pale or grey-toned faces in half.

Each move seemed to happen in a beat, Germany viewing everything from above as his body got pulled to-and-fro by invisible wires.

Beat one. Germany grabbed the axe.

Beat two. He was on his feet.

Beat three. He twisted away from a dark-skinned vampire’s lunge.

Beat four. The axe was up in the air.

Beat five. Too little blood splattered as the vampire howled and screamed and growled.

Beat six. It twisted away as France called a warning. He was in the kitchen now.

Beat six. Germany dodged the wrong way, an elbow narrowly missing his spine and forcing air to rush out of his lungs as he was forced forward and down.

Beat seven. His feet met the dark-skinned vampire’s chin.

Beat eight. The second vampire was on top of him, wrestling his arms down and up, so they’d be pinned above Germany’s head. There was a hard, cold body and puddle of coagulating blood underneath him.

Time froze.

The vampire’s saccharine utterance of “Hey, handsome” punched time back in motion, but Germany was still frozen, eyes wide enough that the whites could be seen around his icy blue irises. All other sounds were muted behind the roar of Germany’s heart in his ears. Only America’s voice broke through.

“Mine,” he whispered, his tone unlike any America had used with him before, and Germany’s mind slammed back into his body and the present.

The spine of the dead vampire body snapped underneath Germany as he buckled, the disconnecting shoulder digging into his back. Fire flared through Germany’s shoulder at the same time he felt a sharp _pop!_ but he kept his focus on America as he forced him forward enough to hit him under the chin with the crown of his head. Their position didn’t allow it to be too hard of a hit, but it was enough to offer Germany the space he needed to roll away and push himself back up onto his feet.

Behind him in the kitchen, France was busy going against three vampires, and the dark-skinned vampire was no longer in the dining room.

It was just America, covered in dirt and grime. His hair was clumped, looking closer to brown than blond, and when he stepped around so the firelight cast oranges and reds over half his body, Germany could see that his eyes were bloodshot, and his pupils had widened, nearly obscuring the color of his irises.

America stood still but ready, knees bent and arms out. He didn’t lunge when Germany took time to shove his shoulder back into place, and the childish glee in his expression never wavered as Germany grunted and winced from pain.

He was waiting. He wanted a fight, to toy with him, and it wouldn’t be fun unless the fight was even.

It could never be even, though. Despite that tone that still sent shivers skittering down Germany’s spine, despite those demonic-looking eyes and matching expression, despite knowing full-well that this wasn’t really America he was dealing with but Herne’s puppet wearing America’s skin…

He couldn’t stop his heart from pounding so hard that he felt winded from merely breathing. He couldn’t stop the sweat breaking out on his forehead and down his neck. He couldn’t stop that cold, shuttering feeling of utter _wrongness_ whenever Germany tried to consider how to best move, strike, incapacitate.

Time had stopped again.

Then suddenly they were outside, Germany only vaguely recalling America doing a backflip through the curtain, tearing it off the wall and Germany following. His left hand twitched, sheets of sideways-blowing rain rinsing blood off his hand. He’d slammed it down onto the sill without thinking when he’d leaped out of the window, and it felt like some tendons had been cut and severed.

America was nowhere to be seen, but as though Germany’s heart could instinctively find his, he dove right and rolled before America’s foot could meet his back.

America slid, and lightning hit a nearby tree, blinding Germany long enough to not see the next attack.

He was on his back, not knowing how he’d ended up there but rolling away despite his mind being dozens of paces behind. He snatched his wounded hand away before America could stomp on it and grasped his pant leg hard enough to bring him down, forcing both of them scrambling through the mud as each grasped at whatever advantage showed itself before blinking away like will o’ the wisps.

Every lesson, every scrap of experience—it was gone. Germany scrambled and bit and scratched and dodged without form or apparent reason.

Worst yet, every single time he got close enough to delivering a major blow—an elbow to America’s eye, a knee to the temple, a shoulder into the chest—Germany’s damnable heart forced him to hesitate, just long enough for America to back up, backpedal, or buck him off him.

The only win so far was that America’s look of childish glee had melted to one of dark hatred.

 _Not hatred_ , Germany realized as the winds shifted and forced the rain to hit him right in the face. Another tree was hit with lightning, the fire put out soon as it started. _Annoyance_.

Like a child opening up a box on Christmas to find a lump of coal in place of a toy.

“I refuse”—America’s punch went wide, and the anger etched deeper into his features—“to let”—Germany caught his kick and shoved him back—“ _you go_!”

Germany was on his back again, air leaving him in a _whoosh_. He grasped America’s wrists, but black stars were already crowding his vision, America’s powerful grip cutting off his air. It felt like he’d already shifted his windpipe; even if America let go right now, Germany still might be unable to breathe.

“ _You’re MINE_!” America screamed, voice barely heard over the thunder, howling winds, and battle inside the manor. “ _I’m not letting him keep you from me_!”

Him. Herne.

This was more than just wanting to beat them. He wanted to _keep_ them, his own little nation pets, with America as the first. Would the rest of them be Turned, or would he keep them as donors?

What would happen to their homes, should this come to be?

 _“He wants to be a god,”_ France had said. _“He wants to conquer.”_

“America,” Germany exhaled, but he couldn’t be sure if he’d managed to say it aloud or if it was only a thought. “Alfred. Please. Stop this.”

Like a flash of lightning, America’s expression flashed to a familiar, pained expression of a boy full of regret twinned with the determination to make things right. But then it was gone, back to that mix of annoyance, anger, and selfish desire. It was so fast that Germany couldn’t be sure if it had happened or if his mind was playing tricks.

The black stars ebbed all the same, and America let out a bestial shriek as he stumbled back, nails digging into the sides of his head so hard that Germany saw blood just before the rain washed it down his face.

He ran, and Germany, still struggling to breathe, went after him, despite the logical part of his mind, having finally caught up with the rest of him, screaming that this was a bad idea, a terrible idea, a potentially catastrophic idea.

He didn’t care.

America was in pain. Germany just might have sent cracks through whatever spell Herne cast over him, and no god or devil was going to force him back before he saw the rest of the spell shattered and ground into dust.

**X X X**

Herne was by the corrupted seal. His smug look fell at the sight of America, which was enough to twist America’s scowl into a manic smile.

His mind warred, resulting in his shoulders shaking and hands twitching, unable to stay curled into fists.

When Herne’s gaze locked with his, those pale blue-and-pink eyes seemed to cut right through the darkness and rain. America’s knee buckled, but with a roar of determination, he forced himself to stay upright, though his right knee remained partially-bent. His breath heaved, and it felt as though equal parts water and air were entering his lungs. He suddenly felt every single blog Germany had landed on him, half of him demanding he turn and force his new pet into submission and the other half utterly revulsed that such a thought could _ever_ cross his mind.

That glass wall in the back of his mind was shattered and bloodied. Both voices now battled for control; all both agreed on was that only Herne could fix this.

Either by taking him back into his embrace. Or by having his heart torn out and eaten.

He’d sent a spy to America, he’d been watching England and toying them both.

His motivations didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was the puppet master whose strings were fraying.

“You,” Herne spat through his teeth, “are _mine_.”

Again, America’s knee buckled, and he gasped as the submissive half of him rammed forward with all its might.

And still again, America managed to stay upright, nearly falling flat in the mud from his trouble.

He. Would. Not. Bow.

With a feral scream, he rushed forward, twisted, jumped and kicked himself off the tree Herne had been in front of only moments before. He grasped one of the long, twisted spikes making up the front of Herne’s iron crown. White-hot pain erupted as flesh, muscle, and tendons were cut into, but America kept moving, ripping the crown off of a shocked Herne’s head and chucking it behind him.

In the same movement, America spun around so he was now behind Herne, but the older vampire was prepared for him this time and twisted away with such grace it was as if he thought this a dance rather than a fight.

The next sequence of moves consisted only of dodging and faking and diving on America’s part as his mind worked hard to find an opening.

When on the ground, he kicked at Herne’s leg but hit only air and scrambled up and away. Herne’s iron claws caught his shirt, narrowly missing his flesh. Time slowed when America glanced at those dark claws and sped up again as America planted a foot, pivoted, and grabbed Herne’s arm, enjoying the shock on his face upon him realizing just how strong America was—some spy he’d sent.

Herne flew, caught himself on a branch, and used his momentum to swing around and kick off the tree’s trunk, America running forward to meet him at a head.

A voice both distant and close was swallowed by thunder.

Time stopped and skipped, passing like slides clicked through by a jittery hand.

Iron claws missed his windpipe but hit his shoulders.

All composure flushed from Herne’s face as he hissed and growled. One of his claws had ripped off and was still imbedded in America’s flesh.

America managed to yank off a clump of Herne’s hair with his uninjured hand when trying to drag his head down onto his knee.

America’s back hit a tree, then the ground, iron claws digging into the side of his neck.

Lightning missed them by half a foot, wood exploding into Herne’s face. He clapped a hand over his hand before realizing he’d let go. Before he could regain his grip on America’s neck, he’d been thrown off, and America slammed the first stick he could wrap his fingers around. Three of his fingers couldn’t grasp the stick correctly, and his hand trembled, but before he could consider any of that, another hand grasped his and guided it into one of Herne’s eyes, popping it like a grape.

Herne howled and screeched, but he couldn’t buck America off, new weight on his legs and dislocating one of his knees.

America gave no notice, only knowing that he had the upper hand and what he had to do before he lost it.

His uninjured hand broke through flesh and muscle and bone. Pain spasmed up his arm, but he gave no notice as Herne convulsed once and then stilled.

That distant-but-close voice from before was back, but America could only see the still heart in his hand.

He sucked it dry before the rain could wash off the black blood.

He vaguely heard the sound of vomiting behind him as the heart turned to dust in America’s hands, and he was aware of the world once more.

His body buzzed. Vibrated. There was a flash of hot, then sudden cold as America screamed and fell forward, hands barely out fast enough to catch him.

His heart stopped beating.

“You…”

Alfred turned. Germany sat there, icy eyes slowly clouding over with confusion.

A new being seemed to possess Alfred as he grasped Germany by the shoulders, his entire body claimed by a cold, longing ache as Germany gasped his wrists, ready to shove him off and defend himself.

America stared into his eyes as his vision both became tunnel-like and saw everything. That everything was Germany. His wants, his dreams, his desires, his pain, his love, his betrayal. But it all swirled and dipped and rumbled in a deluge that threatened to drown Alfred.

“You remember me,” he demanded against the deluge, voice echoing all around them. The deluge ebbed, and Alfred could breathe again. “You remember _us_.”

Germany, dazed and pupils so large that they consumed the blue of his irises, whispered, “I remember us.” He blinked as Alfred let go. “Am… no, Al…” His breathing turned shallow and quick, and it was impossible to tell if the water on his cheeks were tears or rain. Maybe both, and America swore he felt his still heart shatter. “You can’t—”

“I’m so sorry, darlin’,” Alfred breathed, and he brought Germany forward into an embrace, which Germany returned with such forth, Alfred feared he would refuse to ever let go again. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

Because he’d never be able to forgive himself.

“Already done,” Germany said, shifting so their lips met, and Alfred melted into the kiss instantly.

He didn’t want this to end. Warmth leaked down his cheeks, and Germany started and leaned back and looked down, realizing they were still perched on Herne’s corpse.

Hand trembling, Germany touched Alfred’s face.

Blood. Alfred was crying blood.

A laugh bubbled and died in Alfred’s throat.

When America rose to his feet, Germany was up as well, pulling him close again.

“You’re not leaving me,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Not again.”

Alfred’s shoulders shook, but he didn’t take his hands out of Germany’s. “I’m coming back, darlin’.” He tried for a smile, but it trembled and fell. More blood streaked down his cheeks and got washed away by rain. “I swear on my grave.”

Germany didn’t laugh. He only squeezed harder, but his expression showed the war of emotions going on in his heart and mind.

“Something went wrong,” Alfred whispered. “I need’ta figure out what. Then I’ll be back. I’m not leaving you again. Never.” He tried for a smile again. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

The barest ghost of a smile lifted at the corners of Germany’s mouth, and he let go. “Fine, but break your promise—”

Alfred traced an _X_ over his chest. “Ash, yew, elder, or oak is best, but you gotta destroy the heart permanently. Burning works.”

Germany scowled, eyes narrowed, and Alfred smiled more easily.

They shared another deep kiss, Germany accidentally (or purposely?) cutting the tip on his tongue on one of Alfred’s fangs. He growled as a shiver ran through him as he tasted the drop of blood.

He pulled away before the temptation to bite Germany could grow too strong, and Alfred held his breath as he huffed, “Go back, now. There were still four vampires inside when we left the others. With Herne dead, they should have snapped out of their compulsion, but they were kept hungry, so they’d fight more savagely.”

Germany nodded, but he hesitated, longing filling his eyes before he finally turned and ran back to the manor.

There was longing in Alfred’s eyes as well, and it spread through his body as he watched him go. When he was out of sight, though, Alfred forced himself to turn and run deeper into the woods, needing to find some donors before the sun rose.

He had questions, and he needed to be sane and able to stand daylight before confronting the only one he knew who could answer them.

Hopefully he didn’t try to stake him before he could get a word out.


	23. Gift and Curse

What was this? A fucking spawn point?!

How the _hell_ was America in his apartment in DC?!

Naked. Of course. This wasn’t a video game, so in what logic should he respawn with clothes on?

Fuck, _none_ of this was logical, so God or whatever did this should have at least done him a solid and given him shorts.

Seconds ago, he’d been at that meeting in London, everyone trying to focus on work instead of vampires.

Then all of a sudden, America was in DC, digital clock on his nightstand telling him it was just past five in the morning. The blinds were closed, translucent blue curtains drawn over them. The laptop he’d forgotten to bring with him was open on the desk pushed against the wall opposite of the bed.

Breathing fast and shallow, America got up and looked around slowly, expecting his surroundings to fade or dissolve or _something_.

The full-length mirror between the window and closet was covered, but America only vaguely recalled why. His eyes?

He’d always hated his eyes; he remembered now. Who the hell had red eyes?!

God just didn’t care when it came to crafting the nations, huh?

Maybe it was to remind them that they weren’t made totally in His image—that they weren’t totally human.

Scowling, America ripped the white sheet off the mirror, making it move and hit the wall behind it. His scowl deepened as he righted the mirror, scarlet eyes staring back at him through too-long, mahogany brown bangs. God, he needed a haircut. His usually-sienna skin was paler than usual, except for the too-dark half-moons hanging from the underside of his angled eyes.

He opened the closet door with too much force, nearly ripping it off the hinges. Hardly any clothes were on the hanger, irking him. Had someone gone through his closet while he was gone? Clutter made him antsy, but he managed to ignore the need to start cleaning and put on a plain black V-neck and sweatpants, not wanting to bother looking for underwear right now. This was good enough.

On the wall behind him was a _Hamilton_ poster, signatures decorating the golden-yellow background, and America’s scowl twisted into a confused frown as he turned to look at it. He knew the basic plot, remembered the people the musical was based off of, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing it himself.

His heart skipped a beat at that thought, a feeling of wrongness twisting his stomach before settling at the bottom of it like tar.

Turning around again, America shook his head and went to the laptop. He tapped the mousepad, but nothing happened. Dead.

The cord was plugged into the wall and nearby, so America soon got it hooked up.

The screen lit up, and America frowned again, needing to sit down. He couldn’t remember his password, and the name… Alfred. It hit America then that he couldn’t remember his current human name, but it must be Alfred, right?

Heart pounding, he clicked to look at the password hint: _I’m Not Throwing Away My Shot_.

Great. What the hell did that mean?

America looked up, spotting a second poster, this one smaller than the other—an art print, it looked like. It showed a black silhouette against papers with scribbled writing, the all-caps legible writing saying _NON-STOP._ The color scheme and style told him it was also from _Hamilton_.

Above the nightstand was a third poster—another art print, it looked like, only slightly bigger than the one above the desk—showed a star like the first poster, but there were three silhouettes standing on it, looking like women. Above them were the words _You want a Revolution?_ Below were the words _I want a Revelation!_

Above the headboard was a fourth poster, this one framed, the curling words saying _Legacy. What is a Legacy? It’s planting seeds in a Garden you never get to See_.

Something told America he’d probably made his password related to _Hamilton_ , which made the tar in his stomach bubble. He couldn’t recall seeing the musical, yet he seemed to be obsessed with it. Why?

The feeling of wrongness latched in further, making him dizzy.

Shaking his head, America started typing, trying to figure out the password before he got locked out.

 _Hamilton_. No.

 _Nonstop_. No.

 _Revelation_. No.

 _Revolution_. No.

 _Legacy_. He was in.

The background image made America’s stomach clench. Germany was smiling in it—since when did the lug ever smile?—and against his cheek was the cheek of another blond man wearing a goofy grin that lit up his cerulean eyes.

Why the fuck was this his computer background?

His cellphone was still in London, so America got onto Facebook. He sighed in relief when the page came up. He was already logged in. Good. When he respawned, did he just forget all his passwords? And seeing _Hamilton_? What else?

America tried to think of what movies he’d watched recently and came up empty.

He could recite plot points of major films like the _Star Wars_ series, _A Clockwork Orange_ , and _Godfather_ , but he couldn’t remember actually _watching_ them.

His heart beat faster, harder, and then it stopped entirely.

His profile picture was that blond guy with the goofy grin. Only this time, digitally-applied dog ears and tongue were pasted over the picture.

America got onto Twitter. His icon was that blond guy again.

Instagram. Picture after picture of the blond guy.

But… _how_?

Scrolling through Twitter, America saw live tweets of movies he’d never seen, gym selfies of the blond stranger, and drunken pseudo-philosophical ramblings with replies from other nations telling him to log out and sleep.

This wasn’t America, but then why were so many other nations interacting with him? Commenting on his pictures? Filling his following and friend pages?

All the blanks in his memory. Waking up in DC when he’d been in London only seconds ago.

He was America. He knew this with every square inch of his soul.

But he wasn’t Alfred.

When black stars crowded America’s vision, he realized he hadn’t been breathing.

Gulping down breath, he turned to look at the signed _Hamilton_ poster again.

Alexander. That’d be his new human name. He’d think of a surname later. That dark, cold, tar-like feeling of wrongness overwhelmed him, making him unable to think of much more.

He’d need a passport. ID. He’d probably have to handle his boss. It wasn’t like he looked anything like Alfred did. She’d have questions, maybe even have him apprehended until he figured out how to convince her.

“Shit,” America spat when he realized he’d started to cry. He swiped at the tears so hard that he ended up punching himself, but he didn’t care. “God created humans. The Devil created us.”

This wasn’t fair, but life wasn’t fair.

None of them got the choice of whether or not they were born, created. It was up to them to decide whether to see it as a gift or a curse.

America decided right then to see it as both. Nations were paradoxes by design. He didn’t have to like it; he just had to live.

He started deleting the social media pages.

He couldn’t remember anyone’s phone numbers. He had no way of contacting them, until he got to London.

They could wait. America was incapable of explanations or answers. He didn’t have any to give, anyway. All he had were questions, and he knew that the most important ones would be forever sealed away.

The wrongness would ebb eventually, once he accepted his role and moved on.

But before changing the background to a standard landscape, he saved the picture of Alfred and Germany and then hid the file, having to use Google to know how.

A small act of rebellion.

Or a reminder that he was a stranger in the land he was supposed to embody.

He didn’t know which; he wasn’t sure he cared.


	24. Living in the Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which everything is hurriedly mashed together just so this fic can be Done.

Getting Romania into England’s office in the basement had been easier than Alfred anticipated.

The nation tensed when spotting him, though, and Alfred raised his hands, palms outward.

“You knew what eating the vampire’s heart would do,” he said.

Still tensed, Romania’s mouth twitched. He was quiet for a long time, indecision clear in his ruby eyes. “You’re not Herne.”

Alfred frowned. “I’ve been called lots of names, but that one’s downright insulting. Fuck you.”

Romania’s mouth twitched again, but this time it looked like he’d been about to laugh before clamping down on the urge. His muscles eased, but only slightly.

“What happened to Moldova?” Alfred asked bluntly.

Any humor died, and Romania’s expression flattened. “How the hell—?”

“It’s hard, I’m sure, but think, Valerie.” He smiled innocently at Romania’s bared fangs. “Hopping from rooftops… I thought at first you Turned Moldova, but it was the other way around, wasn’t it? Only… Moldova’s not a vampire. Is he.”

It wasn’t a question, and he lowered his hands as Romania caught himself on the doorframe.

“I asked him to,” Romania said after a while, brow furrowed as he dug through his memories, changed as Alfred was now changed. “Begged. He regretted it, wanted to Turn back. I thought he was successful.”

“But…”

“But there was a portrait of me and Moldova—Moldavia, during the decline of the Golden Horde. Hungry had painted it. Before she gave up painting for whatever fucking reason.” He stopped, brow furrowed more as pain washed over his features. “They. Don’t. Match. Brown hair and red eyes…, but his portrait… His hair’s blond, even lighter than Belarus’s. His eyes are green. He looked older, in the portrait, face angled, not round.” He finally met Alfred’s eyes again, showing pain he had never seen on the nation’s face before. “America’s Facebook, Twitter, and everything else was deleted an hour ago. France and I were online, trying to contact him, because he’d disappeared. We saw someone else’s picture. Over and over. It’s you. It’s fucking you.” He shook his head.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Alfred said, “When I was questioning vampires, trying to figure out how to Turn back, one finally told me I had to suck dry the heart of the vampire that Turned me. I thought that was Herne. Either I was wrong, or that vampire was wrong, or both.”

But Alfred had Herne’s compulsion powers now. Germany remembering proved that.

Did the vampire who gave him that information know that would happen? Or was it coincidence?

Alfred didn’t like coincidences.

Romania exhaled loudly and nodded slowly. He still looked ill at ease, and he refused to step any closer to him. “I honestly don’t know anything else. For my own sanity, I gave up trying to find the… the old Moldavia a long time ago. For us… for nations… that’s our only course of action, really. But if he’s still alive, if he’s behind any of this… tell him I miss him. At least I do when I remember.”

Romania managed a wobbling smile that made him more recognizable as the Romania Alfred knew and had joked around with.

“And punch him in the gut for me,” he said.

Alfred smiled, eyes dancing. “If he _does_ have anything to do with this, you bet.”

 **X X X**  

The rest of the meetings had to be postponed, their bosses demanding answers they couldn’t give.

America’s poor boss was still reeling, having sounded more stressed when it concerned the nation personifications than when it came to actually _running_ said nation. After all the bad press thrown her way during the entirety of her campaign, followed by a narrow win (over a million popular votes more than her opponent but barely squeaking past when the electoral votes were counted), and then more bad press focusing on her gender had already turned most of her brown hair grey, and what had happened at the G8 meeting could not be helping.

At least she didn’t know about the vampires. None of their bosses did, and they were keeping it that way. England’s manor had been thoroughly trashed in the fight, so now they’d been moved to a hotel while England resided in his London flat while convincing his brothers over the phone—borrowed from France, as his mobile was still dead—that he was fine and could be left alone.

Germany practically inhaled his beer, Prussia and Hesse watching some horror movie that made them laugh instead of scaring them. They’d given up trying to get Germany to watch with them, saying he was being an even bigger mood-killer than Saxony, who had left over an hour ago.

They’d all been able to tell something was wrong with Germany, but Germany had been tight-lipped. Hesse and Saxony had let the subject drop quickest, both preferring the tactic of waiting for Germany to come to them, like he had when he was younger. Neither seemed to have noticed Germany stopped doing that years ago.

Baden sure to start bothering him again later. Prussia would be the hardest to duck around, especially if he started asking about America.

Thinking that name made Germany’s heart clench.

Alfred wasn’t America anymore.

America was Alexander now, a cynical and short-tempered man with scarlet eyes and dark hair. He didn’t have any of Alfred’s mannerisms, except maybe his poor posture. Soon as contact had been made through his boss, he’d complained about needing a new passport, since all of his stuff was in London. He’d said he couldn’t think of how he’d ended up back in DC so suddenly, and he’d said the last thing he’d remembered was being at the meeting, though the details of what they’d been talking about eluded him.

Germany had taken Alfred’s passport before the others found it and saw that the face in the picture didn’t match the one in their memories.

Germany’s own memories were a war of images that left him dizzy and ill. He hadn’t been able to eat much since getting home, something Prussia had definitely noticed and was sure to bring up later.

Hands shaking, and Alfred’s passport feeling hot in his back pocket, Germany got a third beer from the fridge.

Hours later, he was still nursing the beer and going through the one thing Alexander—America—had forgotten to delete: Alfred’s DeviantArt. Hardly anyone knew it existed; only Germany, Canada, and Australia. Germany would probably have to delete it himself at some point; Canada and Australia might ask too many questions, remember too many things, otherwise, and this madness wasn’t something Germany would dare wish on anyone.

But for now, he clicked on photograph after photograph. Landscapes had been Alfred’s favorite, but he’d shown a growing love for urban subjects, especially with his black-and-white photos. There were a few pictures of his various darkrooms, one familiar. It was the one in his house in West Virginia, which had been Alfred’s favorite place to escape to for pictures.

Eventually, Germany’s phone died, and he looked up when Prussia handed over a napkin but said nothing as he sat down.

Face hot, Germany wiped at his tears, also saying nothing.

They sat in silence. Hesse must have left. Germany couldn’t tell how much time had passed; his brain felt too addled.

“What doesn’t match?” he finally asked, voice feeling hoarse.

Prussia blinked in puzzlement, but his expression stayed even. “What do you mean?”

Germany drew in a deep breath, eyes on his cellphone. “When you’re drunk, sometimes you start crying ‘They don’t match.’ What… Who doesn’t match?”

Now Prussia looked away. “Maybe you should tell me what happened, huh?”

Germany did, starting with when Alfred broke up with him two years ago.

**X X X**

“You gave England the magic knife,” Alfred deadpanned as he stared into phosphorescent green eyes with blocky, goat-like pupils. “You had me Turned—or Turned me yourself—and fed that heart-eating bullshit to that vampire.”

He hadn’t needed to find the old Moldova—or Moldavia. He, now calling himself Nicolae, had found Alfred in the abandoned asylum he’d tracked Daniel and the other kidnapping victims. They’d been unconscious but alive, and Alfred had left them at the nearest hospital before disappearing into the night once more, keeping the abandoned asylum as his headquarters of sorts until he figured out his next move.

Then Nicolae found him, waiting in his makeshift bedroom after Alfred returned from a feeding.

“You forgot to give me credit for making certain it was Nostradamus—if you have issue with his chosen name, take it up with him, not me—was who Francis summoned and not someone who meant him or you harm.” Nicolae smiled, but there was no humor in it.

He was tall and lanky, and his long, pale hair reminded Alfred of Lucius Malfoy, and his accent was hard to pin down. It was like he’d travelled so much throughout his life that no language or dialect had gotten enough time to really settle on his tongue and instead mixed with everything else.

They sat across from one-another in chairs that had straps dangling from the arms and front legs.

“ _Why_?”

Nicolae showed no fear as Alfred’s nails dug into the arms of his chair or as he flashed his fangs. His eyes were still mostly red, the blue a thin ring separating iris from sclera.

“Herne was becoming too dangerous,” Nicolae responded simply. “He plotted to kidnap eight nations and keep them as blood banks. I do not wish to think about how that would have affected things. Best was to stop him, but the only way was to have another take his place. I’ve tried humans, but none stayed sane long enough, and none would have been able to put up a fight against Herne’s compulsion, let alone his strength. That left a nation.”

“Why _me_?” Alfred gripped the chair arms more tightly. He felt a _crack_ but didn’t let go.

The barest flicker of emotion flitted across Nicolae’s face. “Because I don’t know you. It could have just as easily been Canada”—he didn’t flinch when Alfred broke his chair’s arms—“but your history and personality intrigued me.”

“So, I was your goddamn science experiment.” Alfred had only promised to punch him—which he had, Nicolae not even defending himself, pissing Alfred off all the more—but now he wanted to kill him.

“Of everyone, I figured you would be the one to appreciate a science experiment.”

Alfred scowled but didn’t argue.

“You now have Herne’s powers, which he had gained upon draining the heart of the vampire before him. A better vampire than him but too curious and too merciful, despite his predatory lineage.” There was another flicker of emotion, and Nicolae looked at the warped floorboards instead of Alfred’s eyes. “You have Herne’s cunning but Kenelm’s honor. I trust you’ll fill your new role better than either. Don’t show my trust as misplaced.”

Then he was mist, and Alfred jumped to his feet as the mist was carried out the open window.

 New role.

  _"The Fool is often depicted as near a cliff, juggling, or both. He’s in danger of falling while distracted.”_

Alfred could practically hear England’s voice.

_“The Six of Swords speaks of running away from one’s problems, often something that requires more immediate action. The Eight of Cups is similar, though moving on while there is a mess left in your wake.”_

There was most definitely a mess that had been left in Alfred’s wake.

_“The Hanged Man often depicts the same man in the Fool card, but older, and shown what happens when you don’t watch where you’re stepping.”_

Alfred had focused only on finding the vampire that Turned him, and now he was here, in an abandoned asylum, undead and his closest friends unable to remember him because of whatever fucked-up cosmos rules had been set.

_“The Nine of Swords depicts someone waking, likely from a nightmare. This running is catching up to you, and when it does, it’ll be harsh and painful. The Tower, a very dramatic card and worse than Death and the Devil in my honest opinion, laminates this point. When the truth catches up, it’ll be sudden and jarring.”_

Correct again, but Alfred would not be waking up from this nightmare.

_“The Eight of Wands makes this even clearer: It’s coming, and there’s no stopping it. Everything’s been set into motion; all we can do is wait and prepare.”_

Free will was a farce. All Alfred could do was pretend he had every choice in the world and move on. And right now, he chose to travel across the Channel and see his boyfriend.

Travelling without a passport had been easier than travelling only at night. Sunlight didn’t burn him, but it was uncomfortable and made him feel like curling up in a dark corner and falling into a deep sleep.

Soon enough, though, he reached Germany’s house, just outside Berlin. He didn’t like staying in apartments, willing to commute to work if it meant having plenty of room for his dogs. Blackie and Berlitz started barking, but Aster started panting happily soon as he got close enough to see Alfred.

“Hey, boy,” Alfred said, patting the shepherd on the head as he walked around towards Germany’s window. Prussia’s car was parked out front, and he didn’t feel like risking meeting him at the front door.

“Quiet!” Prussia shouted from inside—from the kitchen, it sounded like.

Germany’s window was opened halfway to let in air. It was July now and stifling. This summer must be the hottest in years, and Alfred’s smile faltered as he found himself thinking that he couldn’t wait until winter.

His body had a harder time putting up with heat.

“Hey, darlin’,” Alfred said as Aster panted happily behind him. Blackie and Berlitz were keeping their distance, not liking the smell of him.

Germany, who’d been sitting at his desk, jumped and bit his lip before he could let out a yelp. He rushed to the window and opened it the rest of the way before schooling his expression back to a neutral look.

“I’ve kept my promise,” Alfred said as he pulled himself into the room. His smile faltered again and fell as he saw the dark half-moons under Germany’s eyes and how he took a half-step away. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes stung, but he blinked hard, not wanting to cry blood in front of him. “I… shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have made… you remember… It was sel—”

Quick as if he’d been Turned himself, Germany pulled Alfred forward and kissed him with a fervor that made him melt and lose any train of thought he’d had on his way here. He let himself be carried to the bed, and he let out a small whine when the kiss was broken.

“Make me forget,” Germany whispered, sounding to be out of breath, “and I will not hesitate to stake you through the heart.”

Alfred smiled at that and pulled Germany back on top of him.

There was no telling how long they would be able to do this, how long Germany would be able to handle the conflicting memories, if Alfred would lose himself the way Herne had, but none of that mattered. When you were immortal, the past and future did not, could not, matter, lest all sanity be lost. 

All that mattered was the present, and Alfred was going to live in it as long as he could.


End file.
